


Out of Order

by a_mere_trifle



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe, For Want of a Nail, Friendship, Time Travel, University
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-01-05 11:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 25,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21207944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: [AU] In which Hershel Layton delves into the ruins of Akbadain, loses his best friend, finds love, loses love, becomes a university professor, fights his brother, joins his brother, discovers the Azran Legacy, and takes down Targent for all time....Just none of it in that order.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I could give all sorts of artistic explanations for the formatting here, and they wouldn’t all even be nonsense, but the plain truth is, I’m already embroiled in an AU I’m trying to write all longform, in-order, and proper-like, and it’s taking me bloody _years_. So for this one? To hell with it, let’s just get to the good bits...

\--

He knew what to expect. He knew first-year students well enough by now. He had hopes, but he knew what was coming.

“Good morning, class,” he said. “I am Professor Layton, and--”

A dozen hands were up already. “Professor!” two students were urgently chirping.

“--and I am not going to get out of this so easily,” he sighed to himself. He’d expected it, and knew he would weather it, but it still stung. 

Nevertheless. He lifted his chin, and chose one of the more restrained-looking students. “Yes, the gentleman in the blue shirt, please.”

“Professor Layton, we heard you were at the scene of the-- the Azran incident in Froenborg,” said the young man. “Is it true?”

“It is,” he said. “Now, in this semester’s course--”

“Professor!”

It had been worth a try. “The young lady in orange, yes.”

“Is it true that you fought Targent, the archaeology mafia?”

“I doubt ‘fought’ is the correct word, I’d have to check the exact definition of the word ‘mafia’, and I fear I am legally bound not to comment on an ongoing criminal investigation. This semester--”

“Professor!”

He was going to keep trying, odds be damned. Someone would have to blink first, and the numbers might be against him, but he was strong-- stronger, perhaps, than he wanted to be. “The gentleman in red-- yes, you, sir.”

“Is it true that you were working with the notorious Jean Descole--”

“Please--” he tried, but the students’ patience had worn thin. Some were practically jumping out of their chairs.

“Was Professor Ascot’s wife really kidnapped?”

“Was the Azran Legacy really--”

“Is Professor Cra--”

“Enough!”

He hadn’t meant to shout that quite so loudly, but it certainly got their attention. “Might I remind you all which course you signed up for? The name and number are clearly written on the board, if you're confused. If you are looking instead for a course on the Azran, Professor Ascot has fully updated his material for the semester, though I do hear the halls are rather packed. Papers on the academic ramifications of the latest discoveries are forthcoming; the university librarians would be happy to help you locate them. If you’re looking for a discussion of Azran engineering marvels, you’ll be happy to know that a new course is currently in the works, though this, alas, is not it. And if you are looking for idle gossip, get out of my classroom. The last place you may expect to find it is here.”

The room was quiet. No one moved, but he expected the next session would be considerably less well attended. Well, that was ever the way of it.

“Now, to the matter at hand,” he said. “I remind you again that this course is Introduction to Mechanical Engineering, and your expectations of the content under discussion should be calibrated accordingly. Shall we begin?”

\--


	2. Chapter 2

\--

It was twenty minutes past midnight when the knock at the door came. Hershel sighed, passed Angela a fiver, and went to answer it.

There was Randall, rain-drenched and grinning wildly, a suitcase in his hands. “Oh! You’re up late.”

“Well, of course I am,” said Hershel. “It’s a special day, after all.”

Randall’s grin turned a little sheepish. “I’m that predictable?”

“Only to some of us,” said Hershel. “Come inside, the weather’s miserable.”

Randall did, shaking the water off his raincoat as best he could. “I’d have been quieter, but I saw your lights were all on. Like a lighthouse in the dark and stormy night, eh?”

“Something like that,” said Hershel. “You couldn’t have brought an umbrella?”

“It wasn’t raining when I left,” said Randall, “and I did pack one. In the suitcase. Under the clothes…”

Hershel shook his head. “Randall. I swear, sometimes you haven’t any sense at all.”

“But you love me anyway,” said Randall. 

“We all have our weaknesses,” called Angela.

“Angela?” Randall blinked. “What are you doing here?”

Hershel put his arm around Randall’s shoulders and led him to the kitchen. “To a few of us,” he said, “yes, you are that predictable.”

Randall looked at Angela-- at the Laytons-- at the cards they were holding-- at the orange-frosted cake in the centre of the table. Lucille leaned forward, starting to light the eighteen candles one by one.

“Five minutes later and I wouldn’t have won the bet,” said Angela. “Good show, love.”

“We’ve got the guest room made up,” said Lucille.

“I give it a month before the old man unbends enough to let you get your things,” said Roland.

Randall wiped his forehead, or possibly his eyes, with his sleeve. Hershel politely pretended not to notice. “Well. It’s a travesty, being that obvious, but if it gets me cake, I suppose I can live with it for now.”

“Happy eighteenth birthday, Randall,” said Hershel.

“Come on,” said Angela. “I’ve been waiting for the cake for ages, and someone’s got to help us break Mrs. Layton’s winning streak.”

“Not likely,” scoffed Roland. “She’s the luck of the devil.”

“I don’t even know how to play this silly game!”

“You’ve won three rounds in a row!”

“A complete coincidence,” said Lucille, sitting back in her chair. “Go on, now, Randall, make your wish before the candles start dripping.”

Randall stared into the flames. “I’m… not sure I can think of anything… that I haven’t already got.”

Angela took his hand. Randall smiled, a little wobbly, and leaned forward, blowing out all the candles in one go.

One wasn’t supposed to tell one’s birthday wish if they wanted it to come true. Hershel assumed he’d never know what was in Randall’s mind at that moment. But it didn’t matter. They were here, they were together, and Randall was safely out of that house. There were days he’d been afraid Randall wouldn’t be able to hold out this long-- but he had, he had, and the wait was over.

Everything was going to be all right now.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

\--

Third time’s the charm. He timed it all carefully; he couldn’t afford to miss this chance. The flutter of a cloak below. He pounced.

The man let out an undignified squawk. “Get off--”

Hershel pressed the flat of his blade to the man’s throat. “Not until you listen.”

Jean Descole stilled. “You,” he hissed. “You’re a persistent little wretch.”

“And you’re a stubborn one. I deeply regret being pushed to these extremes, but I will do anything I have to in order to make you understand.”

“For the last time,” said the man, “_I am not taking an apprentice_.”

“You’d rather we worked at cross-purposes?”

“I’d rather you buggered off and left me alone!”

“That hardly seems the most efficient way to tackle the problem--”

“I work alone.”

Hershel restrained the urge to roll his eyes. “You really think you’re unique, don’t you?”

The man bucked, twisting his face upward to glare at him. “You have no idea--”

Hershel laughed mirthlessly. “I have _every_ idea, Professor Sycamore.”

That gave the man pause. “So you know who I am. Then you must know that they--”

“Took everything from you? Yes,” said Hershel. “You think that makes you unique? You know their methods.”

“I do, in fact, think I am in a unique position to appreciate--”

“They took my parents,” said Hershel. “They took my best friends. They took the love of my life. We hadn’t had time to discuss children yet, but do you really want to waste our time measuring pain?”

Descole went quiet for a moment. “I fail to see how that is my problem.”

“I want to help you,” said Hershel.

“I want to work alone,” said Descole.

“It would be safer with three.”

“What do you mean, three--”

“You really think I’ve failed to notice your butler? Professor, please.”

“It’s Jean Descole,” the man snarled.

“After the Azran _ja descole_, I assume, yes. With any luck, you will indeed conquer. But your odds will be better if you’re not alone. The load can be divided. And should one of us fall--”

“How many times must I tell you no?”

“I’m not giving up, Descole,” said Hershel. “Not any more than you are. Even if you drive me away-- I’ll do my best to work alone, but I’ll never stop trying to convince you. Not until my friends are free and Targent is destroyed.”

“If mere determination could change the world,” sneered Descole, “it would be a very different place.”

“I have more on my side, sir, than mere determination,” said Hershel. “More than desolation, more than desperation. And I shall not stop.”

“So you’re telling me to kill you?”

“You’d stoop to such lengths to cut off your own nose? Fine.” Hershel lowered the knife, but didn’t move. “I tracked you down this far. You’ve seen me fight. Why are you unwilling to entertain the idea that I could possibly be useful to you?”

“Some things just aren’t worth it,” said Descole, and threw himself to the side. Hershel almost kept him down anyway, but the man was wiry, and slipped out of his grasp. He was on his feet a moment later, but so was Hershel, a blade in his hand and cold steel in his eyes. “I work alone.”

“No, you don’t. You have your butler; remember we’ve been over this?”

“You seem to be forgetting that fact as well,” said Descole.

“If he were going to interfere,” said Hershel, “wouldn’t he already have?”

Descole scoffed. “There’s no way you could possibly have incapacitated Raymond.”

“And yet,” said Hershel, “he isn’t here.”

Descole was silent for a moment. “How on earth did you pull that off?”

“I’d be happy to tell you over tea in that airship of yours--”

“Immortal gods, how do you make of yourself such a vexation?”

“I’m doing my very best,” said Hershel. “There’s little else for me to do. You should understand that better than anyone, shouldn’t you?”

Descole was silent for a long moment. “I suppose I could always shove you out the airlock,” he said.

“That’s the spirit.”

“...Come on, then,” said Descole. “I shan’t be this foolish twice.”

“Thank you.” Hershel followed.

“What’s your name, O ceaseless torment?” said Descole. “Just so I have something shorter to call you than That Relentlessly Irritating Upstart. Doesn’t trip off the tongue. A _nom de guerre_ would suffice.”

Hershel had no interest in a pseudonym. What would be the point? “Layton,” he said. “Hershel Layton.”

Descole stopped in his tracks, turning his head to look back at him, eyes hidden behind his mask, face completely unreadable.

“What?”

“My sins,” said Descole, “have overtaken me.”

Hershel waited for the man to explain himself, but he was silent for a long, long moment.

“Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Hershel suspected he would need to know how he had just won, and quickly, but for the moment, he was more than satisfied with the fact that he finally had.

\--


	4. Chapter 4

-

“Excuse me,” said Randall, “but I require my friend’s assistance on a matter of vital importance.”

Hershel stared at the chalkboard. Perhaps, if he simply didn’t acknowledge the statement, it would prove to have been hallucinatory, which, while a troubling sign for his mental health, might at least be less mortifying than--

“...Excuse me?” said Professor Hawkins, and Hershel let his head drop down to his desk with a decided thunk.

“It’s absolutely life or death,” said Randall, earnestly.

“I should hope so, if you’re interrupting my lecture for it--”

“I promise you, sir, I am a devout believer in the value of academic pursuits, and I would not disturb you if it weren’t the absolute most important thing I have encountered in my life to date.”

“Which shan’t be much longer if I ever see you interrupt one of my lectures again.” Hawkins folded his arms. “Layton’s friend, eh? I can tell by the look of shame on his face.”

“He gets that a lot, I fear,” said Randall, humble but unrepentant.

Hawkins sighed. “Go on, then, boy, get your daft friend out of here or I’m going to fail you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hershel said, and gathered up his things with all haste.

“Dare I ask what it was that necessitated this interruption?” Hawkins growled.

“I need a witness,” said Randall, and grinned.

“I-- you _what_?!” Hershel nearly dropped his pack.

“God almighty. Get thee gone, you wastrels!”

Hershel hurried out the door as quickly as he could. Everyone knew Hawkins threw invective at unfortunate students, but there were many credible rumours that when sufficiently provoked, he threw considerably more substantial things as well. “Randall--”

Randall took him by the hand, starting through the halls. “Come on, we’ve some time before the registry office closes, but there might be a queue--”

“Randall!”

“Yes?” Randall looked back at him.

“You can’t be serious?”

The smile Randall turned back on him was content and joyous and bright as the sun. “Oh my God. Randall--”

“Come on, Hershel! I absolutely refuse to be late!”

“Randall!” Hershel wasn’t even sure what he was going to protest about, but the whole thing, the whole thing was absurd--

Randall shoved the doors open and bundled them out into the afternoon sun. He squinted at the green, where a few women were sitting and chatting on the benches. “Halloa, there!” he called. “My friend has a wedding to attend, and he needs a date!”

“_Randall!_”

“A date?” said a familiar voice, and Hershel blushed scarlet, casting his eyes down to the ground, on the off chance not looking would prevent it from having happened. The rat had _seen_ her, the absolute _scoundrel_\--

“It’s a matter of great urgency,” said Randall. “He’s a wedding to attend this afternoon, and the poor thing’s been given no notice at all.”

“Well, then,” said Claire, and stood. “We can’t have that. A gentleman can’t possibly attend a wedding without a date.”

Hang on. Had she said a date? She was agreeing to this madness? More specifically, she was agreeing to be his date?

“Splendid!” said Randall. “Right this way. I knew you could be counted upon to do the right thing.”

“I’m quite delighted, I assure you,” said Claire, and linked her arm in Hershel’s. His mind went suddenly and completely blank.

“So,” she said. “To Gretna Green?”

“Alas,” said Randall, “for the old days. No, we’re for the registry office.”

Hershel found his voice, with some difficulty. “Randall, you can’t just go to a registry office and get married--”

“Right, there’s four weeks’ notice,” said Randall.

“So why are you--”

“Because we gave notice four weeks ago.”

Hershel’s jaw dropped. “You’re… you can’t possibly be…”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life, Hershel,” said Randall, though he still wore that mad grin. “Ah, there they are. Angela! Henry!”

They were at the corner just ahead; Henry, Hershel noticed with annoyance, had been given enough notice that he was wearing a suit, and Angela was all in white, a veil pinned in her hair, as if she were going along with this farce. “Randall, you’re-- you’re actually serious?”

“Do try to catch up, Hershel. Yes, I am.”

“Then-- Randall, you could’ve told me four weeks ago! And why did you have to get me in the middle of a lecture?!”

“I thought he had,” said Angela. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Anyway, to make a long story short--”

“You will be telling me the full story at the earliest opportunity, Randall--”

“--our parents are on their way to London, and we’d prefer to have as many laws on our side as we can.”

Hershel closed his eyes, and drew a long breath. “Randall,” he said, “we are going to have a very long and heated conversation about this that you are not going to enjoy, and we are not doing it anywhere near live steel.”

“I’m kind of expecting that, yes,” said Randall.

“As long as we’re clear. Now, which way is the registry office?”

“The boy’s an absolute gem, Miss Claire,” said Randall, beaming. “Simply a marvel. You should snap him up while you can.”

“Randall!”

“A few blocks west,” Randall said, and laughed. “Come on! The game’s afoot!”

\--


	5. Chapter 5

\--

Their visits were rationed, monitored, recorded; anything they said could and would be used against them, but Randall couldn’t help it; he craved it more acutely than anything he’d ever known, and sometimes, sometimes he still slipped. But he was learning.

“Angela--” he said, and then he went quiet. He looked at her, a hesitant expression on his face. It wasn’t unusual. They’d learned to speak in code, now, and the words took longer to formulate. Half the time, they didn’t bother with words at all anymore.

He licked his lips; he chose his words carefully. “Hello,” he said.

“And hello to you too,” said Angela.

“It’s… you’ve no idea how good it is to see you,” he said. “Well-- I’m never sure anymore. I’d rather see you safely away from here-- but safely here is at least some substitute.”

Angela nodded. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m safe.”

“I’d rest more soundly if you were a hundred miles away from here.”

“You have to rest, Randall,” said Angela. “You can’t keep worrying about me. I’m fine. I promise.”

He searched her face carefully. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Why…” he said, and licked his lips. “No. Angela, everything’s starting to happen now.”

“I’d got that impression,” she said.

“Hershel is… Hershel is moving against them, and they’re going to use me. They’re going to want me to betray him.”

“Of course they do,” said Angela, bitter. “What else have they ever wanted?”

“I don’t know if I can face…” He swallowed. “But as long as they have you--”

“That’s the key, isn’t it?” she said, and grimaced. “As long as they have me.”

“I wouldn’t stand for any of this if they didn’t,” said Randall. “But you know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” said Angela. “I know you well enough for that.”

“You know what I’d do if I had any choice.”

“I’d hope it could be described as a rampage,” said Angela, with a faint smile.

“Oh, yes. But these people-- these bloody people-- it’s too charitable to describe them as ‘people’-- you know what they’d do.”

“We both know what they’d do,” said Angela.

He looked at her for a long moment, searching her expression, memorizing her face. “Let’s talk about something else. Anything else. Have you been getting any reading done? What do they have by way of books? Anything decent? Shakespeare, Sophocles, Dickens?”

“I can’t stand Dickens,” she said.

“Count of Monte Cristo?”

“No,” she said. “Dime novels, at the moment. Silly romances where some foolish woman casts her hat at a man she knows she can’t possibly have. Or some selfish dastardly rake magically reforms for the sake of his love. Or some fool sacrifices themselves for someone who isn’t even a lover, only to be miraculously rescued, and of course wedded, because such silly gestures can buy you love. Complete and utter nonsense is what I’m reading. It’s painfully stupid, but it can be a comfort in trying times. And I’ll take all the comfort I can get.”

“Angela…”

“I don’t believe in miracles,” she said. “I know how this story will end.”

Randall covered his eyes with his hand. “I don’t know how I can bear this,” he said. His voice was shaking; Angela sat closer, covering his trembling hand with hers.

“You’ll do what you have to,” she said. “We all will. And one day, Randall, you will see these bastards overthrown; you will put these days behind you with a spade, bury these so-called archaeologists deeper than anyone can ever find, and you’ll move onward. Leave them in the past they so adore. You don’t know how much I’d give to see that day.”

“Don’t I?” he whispered. “You think I wouldn’t do the same?”

She looked at him. “Well, I bet my future on it,” she said, holding up her wedding band, “didn’t I?”

Randall shut his eyes for a long moment. “Angela, I--”

“Shh. The walls have ears.”

“They do.” Randall drew himself into a ball, hiding his eyes; Angela patted his back softly.

He sat there, shaking and silent, for the rest of their meeting; but that also was not unusual enough to draw attention.

\--


	6. Chapter 6

\--

The lecturer was a short man, with a strong nose and long dark hair that was already heavily thinning on top. He scowled at them all. “Hello,” he said. “Regrettably, in order to progress in my personal studies, I have been forced to aid in the futile effort to drill basic facts through your thick, thick skulls.”

Hershel’s eyebrows raised as the man continued. “I do this grudgingly and under protest. If you do anything to make this any harder than it has to be, I swear by God I will make your life twice as miserable as you make mine.”

Hershel considered, one more time, whether he’d really done the right thing in refusing Randall’s archaeological advances. It technically wasn’t too late, but…

“Professor, are you seriously--”

“Shut your trap and open your book. We’ll begin with--”

“But it’s the first day of classes, you haven’t even introduced yourself--”

The man glared at his questioner. “My name’s not going to be on the bloody exam, now is it? Now chapter--”

“But it is going to be on the--”

“Oh my god, if you have nothing better to do than mouth off at a bloody lecturer, get the hell out of this classroom and re-evaluate your life. No bloody questions! About anything save engineering! Am I understood?!”

He was not, but no further questions were submitted, which seemed to satisfy him. “Good. Now if you’ll bloody _listen_...”

The man continued much as he had begun, answering questions with great vitriol and reluctance, spending most of the session facing the chalkboard and the equations he was writing. He was difficult to follow, but Hershel had read the course materials, and he found that he could manage it. Indeed, the man had some interesting insights, and was clearly familiar with the practical implementation of the theories he was describing. It was a window into where his studies might take him, and he found that he was content with his decision, and excited by the challenges that lay ahead.

When class was dismissed, the students left the room as if propelled, but Hershel lingered, packing up his things. He saw the lecturer lean against the table with a sigh. Teaching clearly wasn’t his calling; he looked drained, and Hershel couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy.

Then he saw him, and his head snapped up into a glare. “The hell are you still doing here?”

“Packing up, sir,” said Hershel. “Thank you for the lecture. It was quite illuminating.”

“Don’t mock me, boy!”

“I’m not.” Hershel fastened the straps of his bag and stood.

“As if you were paying attention to a god damned thing I--”

“You were off by one in that arithmetic.” Hershel pointed at the board.

The lecturer followed his gaze, and his shoulders slumped. “God damn it.”

“I look forward to seeing you Wednesday, Mr.-- Dr.-- oh, dear, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“I never said it,” said the lecturer.

And he hadn’t even put it on the notes, had he? Hershel hadn’t registered the omission until now. “Then-- what are we to call you?”

“I am hoping to have as little contact with students as possible.” He said the word ‘students’ like they were something filthy and contagious.

“But in class, we’ve got to have something to--”

“Professor.”

“But technically you aren’t a--”

“Paul, then,” said the man. “Now get the hell out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hershel, and left the room with a respectful nod. The sunshine outside was still bright, and he was feeling optimistic. It was going to be a long term, but he was going to be the equal of it.

\--


	7. Chapter 7

He was lying on the couch, mind racing, chasing itself in circles. He couldn’t act; he couldn’t fail to; the sky had fallen, and he wasn’t even sure how to move. He wasn’t sure what time it was, if time were flowing in the right direction at all; it was dragging at his limbs with agonizing slowness, it was slipping through his hands. A non-Newtonian fluid, and if he spent less time coming up with metaphors and more time-- he could-- what?

What was he to do?

There was a noise at the door; it might be a rapping. It was his duty to check. That was simple; that was easily accomplished. He dragged himself to his feet and made his way there. Yes, that was knocking. He wasn’t sure who it could possibly be; he wasn’t sure what he could possibly have to say. But it would be rude to leave the door unopened, so he unlatched the chain and pulled it wide.

Claire was staring up at him, her white coat stained, eyes wide and wild and drenched to the bone. “Hershel,” she said.

“Claire?” He hadn’t expected to see her here. He’d been afraid he’d never see her again at all. And in such a state? “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just needed-- I just need to talk to you.” She stared at him; he wondered if he looked as miserable as she did. “May I come in?”

“I-- of course.” He threw the door open wide. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course you may.” 

She came in, and shook off her coat, and sat at the kitchen table, staring around her, then at her hands. “Let me make you some tea,” said Hershel, and put the kettle on. Odd how her mere presence had galvanized him into action again.

“Hershel…” she said, and took his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“You are? Whatever for?”

“You need me right now,” she said, “more than ever, and I just-- ran away. Without even explaining properly. It was the last thing you needed to happen, on top of everything, and I can only hope you’ll forgive me.”

“I… it’s all right,” said Hershel. Her hand was so cold; he took it in his to warm it. “I don’t understand, though.”

“I…” She took a deep breath. “I never told you, about my family.”

“No,” he said, slowly, “I suppose you didn’t.”

“I don’t want to get into all of it, but, my father… he wasn’t a good man. I’d go so far as to say he was an awful man, actually. Living with him was miserable in ways I’d rather not speak of. But I had to. For years and years, we had to. I asked my mother why she put up with it. And she said she was doing it for me.”

“Oh,” Hershel said quietly. The kettle whistled; he started the tea to steeping. “But I’m… not sure I understand.”

“Tell me, Hershel,” she said. “If I told you I was throwing over my career because I thought it would make you happy--”

“A career is a productive thing,” said Hershel. “A useful endeavour that brings fulfillment and happiness to oneself and others. The pursuit of revenge is generally none of those things.”

“The pursuit of _justice_ is one of the most important things in this world, Hershel.” She let out a long sigh. “I don’t want to be an anchor. I won’t be what holds you back.”

“I never thought of you that way.”

“Didn’t you?”

He pressed his lips together. Both ‘yes’ and ‘no’ felt like they would be a lie. “Would running headlong into danger really be the wise thing to do? Would it really rescue anyone? Or would I simply get stuck as well?”

“We should’ve spoken about it further,” said Claire. “I shouldn’t have run away.”

“And I should’ve expressed my reservations more clearly,” said Hershel. “But it’s been a nightmare of a fortnight, and you came back. I was trying to work out how best to come and grovel when I wasn’t quite sure what for…”

She laughed, propping her elbows against the table, running her hands into her hair. “Of course. Of course. Well, you shan’t have to bother now, shall you? I’m right here.”

“I can do my grovelling in the comfort of my own flat?” He poured two cups of tea, and sat beside her, covering her hand with his.

“No. Neither of us has any reason to grovel. We were both upset, we both had our reasons. It’s been an awful time.” She stared at her tea. “But the next time we talk about what you’re to do about… about all of it, we’ll do so more carefully.”

“Agreed,” said Hershel.

“But… perhaps we could set it aside for a couple of weeks?”

He rubbed his forehead. Every moment of inaction was another that his friends were imprisoned. But if he weren’t careful, he’d just give Randall another hostage to worry about, or a friend to mourn. It needed thought. It needed time. And he needed the escape, quite badly. “I think we could,” he said, “if you’re willing.”

“More than willing,” she said. “Hershel…”

She seemed to be struggling for words. Hershel gave her a few moments, but he couldn’t bear to watch it for long; he leaned close, kissing her softly.

“Would you mind terribly,” she said, “if I didn’t go home?”

What did she mean by that? There were so many things she could mean by that. But then, would any of them change his answer? “I’d be deeply in your debt,” he answered. “For the company, if nothing else. It’s been…”

“I know,” she said, and leaned into him. “No matter how angry I was, I shouldn’t have left you alone. But at least I have the chance to make up for it now.”

Yes, and such chances could be snatched away at any moment. What more reminder did he need of that?

“Let’s do it right, this time,” she said, and laced their fingers together. “Let’s get it right.”

And she kissed him, soundly, hungrily, until he could almost forget that the world had fallen down around him.


	8. Chapter 8

\--

The alley behind the archaeology building, between the gutter and the rubbish bins. The night was dark, but Gressenheller’s lights glowed warmly against it, holding it back. But never far, never for long, and Hershel had finally had enough of the illusion of safety.

Paul was kicking a tin can back and forth; he’d barely said a word tonight. “You have to promise me,” said Hershel.

“No, I absolutely do not,” said Paul. “No matter what promise you want, I can tell you that I--”

“Paul. Please. You can’t tell anyone.”

Paul went silent for a moment. “I won’t,” he said.

“If the word got out that…”

“It will eventually, you know,” said Paul. “No matter how quiet you keep about it. Even if they never hear a word about it. Someone’s going to try it again.”

“But the particular set of circumstances--”

“Yes, but who the hell knows if that matters?”

Hershel ran a hand through his hair. “I know. I know. But you can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” said Paul, again.

“If anyone--”

“Stow it, will you?” said Paul. “I have my own reasons.”

“Oh?”

“They’re my own. But I can promise you they’re considerably less stupid.”

“Paul…”

“Hershel?” Henry rounded the corner. “Hello, Paul.”

Paul nodded curtly, which was still more courtesy than he afforded many people. Hershel felt a sudden pang. Here they were, the only two free and living friends he had left, and he was about to--

“Hershel?” said Henry.

“...I was just wondering,” he said, “when we three shall meet again.”

“In thunder, lightning, or in rain…” said Henry, and sighed softly.

“When the hurly-burly’s done,” said Paul, gruffly, folding his arms. “When the battle’s lost, and won. Come on, now, Layton, have out with it.”

“I’m going to find them,” said Hershel. “I’m going to find them and I’m going to end this madness.”

Neither of the other two looked surprised. Neither of the other two looked happy. “I shan’t try to convince you otherwise,” said Henry. “Did you at least arrange a sabbatical?”

“I have,” said Hershel. 

“This is, of course, going to be terrible for your career,” said Paul, “but you’ve never listened to my advice on that score before and I know you aren’t going to start now. At least try to keep your eye open for good thesis topics, will you? Don’t get completely out of practise.”

“I will,” said Hershel.

“You’d better. And send them to me, too. I don’t want you slacking.”

“Yes, Professor,” said Hershel, with a small smile.

“Stay safe,” said Henry. “Randall would never forgive himself if he lost you this way.”

“I know,” Hershel sighed. “But there’s nothing for it. It can’t be endured, Henry.”

“No,” said Henry, “it can’t. I’m not going to try to stop you. Just-- whatever you do, do it well. Fight, and win. And all of you, come back safe.”

“Do you have any idea what the hell you’re doing?” asked Paul.

“I have a few notions,” said Hershel. “An idea where to begin. We’ll see what pans out.”

“Good luck,” said Henry.

Paul sighed. “Take the bastards down, Layton.”

“I intend to.” He almost considered embracing them, but he couldn’t imagine either of them accepting such an emotional gesture. Still, he clasped their hands, and looked into their eyes, knowing full well that it might be the last time.

So be it. He knew what he must do.

“Until we meet again,” he said, and turned away. He would walk back to his flat, he would take the cases he had packed there, and he would not look back. Like Orpheus-- he could never look back.

Not until they were all safely out of this.

\--


	9. Chapter 9

\--

Dinner at one of the university students’ favoured holes in the wall, one of the ones that had older students in it at all hours, drinking vats of coffee, making unwise culinary choices, and making fortresses out of textbooks. Randall looked uncharacteristically sober; he didn’t usually go for red wine this early, either.

“It’s the most hideous news, Hershel,” he said. “You remember Professor Sycamore?”

“Of course I do.” Randall had spent half his teenage years idolizing the man, half his university career scheming ways to poach him for Gressenheller. 

“The man’s family is dead,” said Randall. “He’d a wife and a daughter-- five, I think…”

“Dear god,” said Hershel. “What happened?”

“An accident,” said Randall, “so they say.”

“What do you mean, ‘so they say’?”

“They also say that Sycamore’s disappeared.”

“I imagine under such terrible strain--”

“They also say that two suspicious individuals were found unconscious in his kitchen,” said Randall.

“Oh?”

“This was a few days after,” said Randall, “and directly before he disappeared. Two suspicious men; one had a note pinned to him. With a knife.”

“With a--?” Hershel couldn’t fathom how you could pin a note with a knife, until it came to him, and he winced. “Dear god. What did it say?”

“No one knows,” said Randall. “There was a fire in his offices shortly after. I don’t think it a coincidence.”

“You think that the thugs--?”

“No,” said Randall, “I think he burned his notes after the thugs came for him. I think that’s why he’s gone to ground.”

“You think… what are you saying?”

“Do you remember those rumours I told you about?”said Randall. “That group-- that ‘Targent’?”

Hershel pressed his lips together. He did. He remembered them quite well. He remembered snippets of overheard conversations, hiding in the halls as a child. He remembered his parents taking him aside on his last trip home. _We didn’t want to tell you this, but you’re old enough to know now, and with Randall almost a professor--_

“Hershel,” said Randall, “this is the part where you’re supposed to tell me I’m crazy.”

Hershel took a deep breath. “This is the part where we get two glasses,” he said, “and I tell you to take extreme care.”

\--


	10. Chapter 10

\--

Hershel wedged himself as deep into the corner as he could; the shadows weren’t much protection, but he had no better options. One of the bullets had hit his jacket. It made it easier to tear strips from the lining; it would be a poor bandage, but all the options were poor, nothing ever went well in this world, he couldn’t think of anything that had truly gone well in months. The whole world had derailed from the right and proper track somewhere, and it kept descending further and further into--

“Hershel!”

He jerked, nearly knocking himself out as his head hit the wall. “For god’s sake, De--”

“I thought I’d lost you. What the_hell_ happened? What’s going on?” He took the fabric out of Hershel’s hands, bending down to take over the task.

“What, after they--” Hershel broke off, hissing. It somehow hadn’t been obvious how much such a makeshift bandage would _hurt_. 

“They took you, they had you, now you’re out and the place is seething with guards like rats in a sewer,” said Descole. “You can trust me to have deduced the obvious, but this is an awfully high state of alert.”

The PA system crackled into life again; someone was rattling off orders, in a manner that would be wonderfully insecure if he had any idea what any of it could possibly mean. “Well,” Hershel said, taking a deep breath. “I have good news and bad news.”

“_Good_ news?”

He shut his eyes. “My friend Randall appears to have broken free of Targent’s grasp,” said Hershel. “Quite… dramatically.”

Descole frowned. “Is this also the bad news?”

“It’s related. I do fear he may have snapped.”

“God,” said Descole. “What did they do to--”

A burst of static caught their attention. Clattering sounds came from the speakers, faint cries; then a voice, that made Hershel’s heart try to tear itself apart, rising and sinking at once. “One, two, three, four,” Randall laughed. “Obeying you was such a bore.”

Descole looked at Hershel. Hershel shrugged helplessly.

“Five, six, seven, eight. Who’ll be left to guard the gates?”

A crash, and the speakers squealed into an agonizing death. Hershel suspected Randall had destroyed the microphone. 

Descole drew in a long breath, and let it out in a slow, sibilant hiss of obscenities Hershel couldn’t make out, but hardly needed to. “Another member of the _club_, then,” he said. “We’ll need _buttons_.”

Their club was not in need of further members. Hershel wondered just how far he would go to keep its numbers from swelling further. At the moment, nearly anything seemed permissible to prevent such tragedy. But that was the trap. And yet, and yet--

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Descole. “By all the gods, Hershel, we shall have our revenge.”

Hershel didn’t care about revenge. He wanted justice. He wanted to prevent further tragedy. He wanted to stop the unchecked descent into hell the world seemed to be taking. But at the moment, those all amounted to the same thing, so he nodded, and stood, and prepared himself again to follow his brother anywhere.

\--


	11. Chapter 11

He supposed it was the polite thing to do to let them have a honeymoon, though he was certain Randall had planned for this grace period, hoping Hershel’s justified anger would have cooled down in the meantime. Well, he wasn’t going to let the madman off that easily. Not this time.

The bus was out of sight, now, though, and as usual, without Randall as motivating force, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He looked at Henry for help; the man was staring into the bouquet Angela had pressed into his hands, a strange expression on his face that Hershel instinctively shied away from. That left him nowhere else to turn; he might as well do so with courage. He looked to his left, at Claire, whose arm was still linked with his, in a way that felt more natural than was at all wise to contemplate. She’d been watching the bus as it departed, but now she turned to him, with a quiet, mirthful smile, and his mind went blank again. He’d had something to say. He knew he’d had some sort of idea.

“You’ve very interesting friends,” said Claire, grinning.

“I’m very sorry that you got dragged into this,” said Hershel. “He hadn’t any right to--”

“I’m not.”

His mind went blank again. She couldn’t possibly mean that the way that it… could she?

“It was fun,” said Claire. “And I quite enjoy being your date.”

...There really wasn’t any other way that could reasonably be interpreted. He attempted to swallow; it took two tries. “Well. Then. I… would you like to be so for a little longer?”

She tilted her head. “Have you anything in mind?”

There was something, there had to be something, his mind was a blank, what was he supposed to-- 

_No need to worry. I find your honesty rather delightful._

“Nothing whatsoever,” he said, “but I’m sure there’ll be something on the events board at the university. Or a drink, after today, might not go amiss.”

Her hand slipped into his; she squeezed it, leaning a little closer. “I was honestly afraid you’d never ask.”

“Well, if you’re amenable,” said Hershel, “I’d… be happy to be your date, at any time.”

“Amenable indeed,” she said. Her eyes were twinkling, likely laughing at him, but in a kind enough way he couldn’t mind. The wind was picking up, the light was growing golden, and he had a feeling he was on the edge of a precipice, taking the first step across a long and fathomless gap, walking into a strange and wondrous world he’d never before imagined.

The scoundrel had planned it this way, but no, he wasn’t going to be able to kill Randall for this at all.


	12. Chapter 12

\--

“Welcome back,” said Raymond, then shut his mouth with visible force. The man had a talent for reading a room.

“I am well aware that you can be an exceptionally foolish man,” said Hershel, “but I had not taken you for a coward.” 

Descole drew himself up, affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Why the _devil_ didn’t you say anything!” Hershel threw his pack to the ground. “You knew he’d use it against us! We could have been killed! If you’d _forewarned_ me--”

“Because you’re _soft_,” snarled Descole. “Would you have been so determined, had you known? Would you really have had the nerve?”

“Have you not listened to a single word I’ve ever said?!” Hershel turned his back on the man in frustration. 

“Oh, come on, now! Didn’t you hear yourself? ‘My… father?’” Descole mocked. “You’d have turned tail in a--”

“My father’s name is Roland Layton,” Hershel snapped. “I don’t care what place that monster holds in my lineage.”

“You certainly didn’t act like--”

“You think I’m fool enough to _tell_ him that? After _all this_?” Hershel threw up his hands. “The man’s killed or kidnapped nearly everyone I know-- and you expect me to _tell_ him who I care for?! He’d round them up in half a minute! Did you think I hadn’t thought ahead that far?!”

“I--”

“What kind of fool do you take me for, Descole?!”

He started to answer, then looked at him again, reconsidering. “I didn’t think you were that… calculating.”

“_I’m a bloody engineer!_” Hershel dropped onto the sofa, rubbing his forehead. He simply didn’t have the energy to sustain his anger. He had far too many potential targets for it.

“It’s surprisingly easy to forget,” said Descole, and sat beside him, a careful two feet away. 

“For God’s sake, Desmond,” said Hershel. “Why didn’t you _say_ something?”

“Just how much,” said Descole, “did you already know?”

“I knew full well that I was adopted,” he answered, weary. “I asked few questions, but I knew. When my best friend started to pursue archaeology, they told me about Targent. They told me what had happened to my parents. They didn’t give me names. They didn’t mention you.”

"That's… still more than I anticipated." 

"Yes, you tend to expect very little of me." Hershel bit his lip. He was being petulant, now. He’d have to stop that. "But that's all the more reason to have forewarned me. If I'd had no idea, if he'd distracted me at the wrong time--" 

"I know," said Descole. He took off his hat with a sigh. "I know." 

"Desmond. Why on earth didn't you _tell_ me?" 

"You said it yourself, my dear Layton," said Descole. "It’s the same reason I never came back for you. The same reason I sent you away in the first place. I'm the most courageous coward you'll ever meet."

_My sins have overtaken me, _ he'd said. Hershel sighed, muttering a particularly memorable Azran curse. 

“See, this is why it's difficult to remember you're an engineer.”

“One picks these things up.”

“Curses do tend to be the first thing many students learn.”

Hershel was quiet for a moment, letting his breathing steady, letting his heart slow down. “I suppose it's an awfully awkward topic to bring up,” he said. “Good morning. We're long-lost siblings and our father heads the international criminal organization we're hunting down. Pass me the Times?”

Descole laughed, just a little, bitterly. “Additionally, my cowardice has directly caused you the suffering I’d pretended I was trying to spare you. Would you like some toast?”

“It wouldn't have changed anything, Desmond,” said Hershel. “Randall wouldn't have stopped. I wouldn't have stopped. I already knew about Targent.” 

“And yet,” said Descole, “knowing the whole of it, knowing your connections-- can you really say you might not have taken extra precautions?”

If he'd known how deep it went… Perhaps he would. 

“I failed you,” said Descole. “I have continued to fail you. At every possible test, I have failed you. It's probably about time I gave that up, don't you think?”

“I'd hardly put it like that,” Hershel objected, but Descole was already leaving, with a grand sweep of his cape. He sighed, annoyed; he'd learned by now there was no sense in trying to get the last word when the man was in a mood like that. 

“I do hope you’ll forgive him,” said Raymond. “It’s... rather a difficult subject. I do believe he’d hoped to spare you.”

“I’d prefer to hear an explanation directly from him, thank you.” He shook his head. “I’d prefer to hear a lot of explanations.”

“We might not have them all,” Raymond warned. “Some facts are difficult to find. Some truths are too painful to unearth.”

“He doesn’t know the why of it? You haven’t dug into the past?”

Raymond didn’t answer, looking away in a way that answered Hershel’s question well enough.

“For God’s sake.” Hershel stood, fetching his pack. “And he calls himself an archaeologist. I suppose I’ll have to change careers after all.”

“Sir?”

“This entire situation is ridiculous,” said Hershel. “I want answers. And I will find them.”

“Well,” said Raymond. “I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you, Raymond. Goodnight.” He headed for his room, with one last annoyed huff. 

Really. An archaeologist so afraid of digging up the past. How unprofessional. He’d just have to make up for it with an engineer’s drive to understand how things were put together. 

And how they could be taken apart.

\--


	13. Chapter 13

\--

It was teatime, and fortunately, Gressenheller was well-equipped to cater to the event. There might not be a ready supply of dainties, but Hershel was finding that a light snack and a spot of tea were increasingly vital to his survival, and that was a service the Gressenheller dining hall performed superbly. It was a routine, now; he would settle in, have a small sandwich or the like, and sip his tea while perusing his notes or his schedule. It was a routine, now, which meant Randall was familiar with it.

“Hershel!” Randall clapped him on the back, nearly causing him to choke on his tea. “You must tell me all about the explosion!” 

“That was the chemistry building, Randall,” Hershel sighed. “For the last time, not all sciences are--”

“No, no, the _figurative_ explosion,” said Randall. “I'm quite sure I heard it was Engineering.” 

So word had spread, then. Hershel tried not to wince, and met with reasonable success. “It's a large department--” 

“I've done my detective work,” said Randall, and ticked off points on his hands. “You were at the scene of the crime. You said you had an exam today. The perpetrator matches your description of your mad professor to a T.”

“I never said he was--”

“Come on, now, Hershel. Inquiring minds must know!”

“Inquiring minds seem to know an awful lot already…” Hershel took a long sip of tea, disgruntled. 

“You can't leave me to the mercies of rumour, Hershel. If so, I'll have no choice but to check you for stab wounds, or possibly smoke poisoning. Or was it mustard gas?” 

“It wasn't _that_ dramatic,” said Hershel. 

“Then what was it?”

Hershel sighed. He found gossip distasteful, but it appeared he had little choice. “It was quite overblown. We had an examination today. Our Professor put his name on the papers. Some particularly puerile youths took uncouth amusement from his name, most likely venting a number of frustrations with the course. Our professor also reacted poorly. There were no explosions. There was simply a bit of shouting, and perhaps a few people stormed out of the room. The examination proceeded without them. It's as simple as that.”

“Hershel, I realise you're new, but examinations at Gressenheller University don't generally end with people storming out of the room in a fit of pique.”

“You're just as new as I am,” Hershel pointed out. “Are you certain?”

“Of course I am!” Randall poked his arm. “Clearly you should get out of that den of madness.” 

“I'm not changing my course of study, Randall,” Hershel sighed. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d made that assertion long ago, and suspected he was far from finished. 

“Anyway, you left out the most salient detail,” said Randall. 

“Oh?” said Hershel, though he had done so quite deliberately. 

“Whence the din and the merriment? What caused a scandal that rocked the entire campus? In short, what was the man's name?”

Hershel sighed and pulled the updated copy of the course syllabus the professor had handed out with the exams, muttering something about university policy and damned fools. After today’s incident, he was loath to say it aloud in a public hall.

Randall felt no such compunction. “_Paul Crapper_?”

“Shh!”

“Well,” said Randall, leaning back with a grin. “That explains everything.” 

“It’s a perfectly respectable name, Randall. It doesn’t even relate to--”

“It’s still funny, though. And so apropos.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if that sort of reaction’s exactly _why_ it’s so apropos.”

“Ah, Hershel,” Randall sighed. “You've a terminal case of brown nosing. You're a perpetual teacher's pet.”

“We're in university,” said Hershel. “Shouldn't we have outgrown that sort of thing by now? Doesn't the poor man deserve a reprieve? Are we not _better_ than that?” 

“Well, it sounds like he's doing his damnedest to deserve it, but I know better than to argue with you on matters of chivalry,” said Randall. “Really, though. You should come to the Archaeology department. It's much more--”

“Randall Ascot!” A wide-shouldered woman shoved open the door to the dining hall. She was wearing a leather vest, a wide-brimmed hat, and a look of cold fury. “Show yourself now, villain, and I promise you a _swift_ death!” 

Hershel turned a very dry look Randall's way. 

“Er, I'll explain later,” said Randall. “Anyway, you'd best not get involved. See you tonight if I live!” 

Hershel wanted to demand more information, but that would only draw attention to them, and anyway Randall was already halfway across the room. “Avast ye, snake!” the woman yelled, lunging their way. 

“It wasn't me!” Randall called over his shoulder. 

“Pull the other one!” 

“It was me, but it wasn't what it looked like!”

“Aye, and you'll never get the chance again, knave!”

“Where on earth did you-- Oi! That belongs in a museum!”

Hershel closed his book, gathered his papers into his bag, and set out yet again to prevent the murder of his best friend. 

\--


	14. Chapter 14

\--

Someone was in the room. A presence loomed overhead. Hershel barely noticed, barely registered it.

“Get the hell up,” said Paul.

Hershel saw no reason to do that. He hugged his knees fractionally closer.

“I said get the hell up.” Paul tried to drag him upward, but his lack of mass betrayed him. Hershel was in no mood to assist.

“For god’s sake. You can stay on the couch. Just get off the bloody floor. I’m not going to stop bothering you until you get off the floor. And you know how much of a bother I can be.”

That was true enough. The couch wasn’t all that far. If he just did it, it would go quickly. He dragged himself upward and collapsed back onto the couch.

“Good. Now, what’s your favoured foppish tea?”

He raised his head enough to glare at the man.

Paul did not look remotely repentant. “I said it was a necessary condition. I never said it was sufficient.”

His throat was raw, but he pushed the words out anyway. “What are you doing here?”

“Suicide watch,” said Paul.

Hershel stared at him.

“Someone has to.”

“I’d never--”

“Nonetheless. Whatever the actual risks are. Even I’m sensitive enough to know you need support right now. And I am basically as sensitive as a rock.”

Hershel frowned a little, but didn’t deny it. “I’m the person least suited to the task in the world,” Paul went on. “But I’m the person who’s available.”

Which was, of course, the problem.

“And I’m also enough of an ass to have read the letter,” said Paul, “so you won’t have to explain.”

Right. He’d left it on the table, outside its envelope, in plain view. He should be offended… but… it had been his own negligence, and not having to say, not having to explain it, not having to remember--

“So I’m staying,” said Paul, “and you can’t stop me.”

It certainly sounded like too much effort right now.

“I brought a book. I’ll keep myself entertained. But I’m staying.” He sat down beside Hershel, as if to emphasize the point.

“Thank you,” said Hershel, mostly out of habit. He suspected he’d feel grateful for this at some point, but he couldn’t feel anything, anything else right now.

“It’s…” Paul shut his eyes; he noticed the man’s voice was hoarse. He’d never seen him look so pained. “I don’t have any words, Layton.”

“There aren’t any.” 

Paul sighed, and swore softly, a long unbroken line of curses in more languages than he’d been aware the man knew. He had to admit it was about as close as words were likely to come. He tried not to curl up too pathetically-- he had company, after all-- but he couldn’t find the strength within him to sit up. Couldn't find the strength to feel ashamed, or care.

Paul sighed, and pulled out his book. He rested a hand lightly on Hershel’s back, hesitant, and when Hershel made no objection, he pulled a book out of his pocket with the other and began to read. 

Hershel watched him for a moment, not believing that would be the end of it. There’d be more words, something encouraging, or knowing Paul, some clumsy goad to distract him from his troubles. But the man was silent, staring steadily at the pages. Hershel was almost insulted at the snub, but mostly he was grateful, and intensely so. He couldn’t-- he couldn't talk right now. He wasn’t up to the task of-- behaving like a civilized person. But Paul never had set an expectation that people should behave in a civilized way. So perhaps-- perhaps it was all right, if he didn’t pretend he wasn’t broken for a while.

He let out a shaky breath, staring out into the distance. Paul’s silent presence was cold comfort, but it was more than he’d had before. And it was… it was a kindness, and that meant a great deal. The world was ruined and his life had fallen apart. But there was still something… still something of worth here. There might yet be something on the other side of this.

He didn’t believe it yet. But at some point, he suspected he might.

\--


	15. Chapter 15

\--

Hershel still wasn't sure how Claire had learned he frequented the library; then again, by having a habitual spot, he hadn't exactly made tracking him very difficult. Perhaps it had simply happened by chance the first time or two, but by now, it had become clear that she was seeking him out. And for good reason. 

“All right,” said Claire. “I think I understand. The wire won't work?” 

“It won't,” he confirmed. “To be perfectly honest, I'd recommend simply buying that component. Many places will sell it, and quite cheaply.”

“Yes, but the _budget_...”

“Your time is also of value,” Hershel pointed out. “As is a reduced risk of property damage.” 

“There is that.” She grinned. Hershel tried not to think about how she had a particularly lovely smile. 

“Hershel!” 

He nearly jumped. Usually he was rather good at anticipating Randall's approach. He assumed it was the fruit of long practise, and also a survival mechanism. But here he was, and Angela beside. 

“Hullo, Hershel. Who's your new friend?” 

“This is Claire Foley,” said Hershel. He felt his cheeks heating, and he wasn't sure why. “She's seeking help with engineering a prototype for her physics project.” 

She offered her hand; Randall took it. “Well, well,” he said. “So Engineering has its perks after all.” 

“Ah,” said Claire. “This must be Randall.” 

Randall grinned. “Has he mentioned me?” 

“In passing,” said Claire. “As have the campus security reports.” 

“That incident was in no way my fault, and--” 

“Behave, Randall,” said Angela, swatting at his arm. “I'm Angela. And yes, this is my notorious boyfriend.”

“Am I _notorious_?” 

“I'm afraid you might be. Relax, Hershel,” said Claire, patting his arm. “It's a pleasure to meet you.” 

“What sort of project are you working on?” said Angela. “Well. Keeping in mind I'm studying psychology.”

“We're conducting inquiries regarding the fundamental structure of the universe,” said Claire. 

“That sounds ambitious,” said Randall. 

“What is it they say? Aim for the moon, and even if you miss you'll still land among the stars? The science is bunk, but the idea is sound.”

“Oh, I wasn't judging,” said Randall. “I'm going to singlehandedly uncover the secrets of the lost Azran civilization. Ask anyone.”

“We're an ambitious crowd, then,” said Claire, with a conspiratorial smile. 

“I don't know,” said Angela. “My main ambition is to see Randall to old age without any deaths or criminal charges. Then again, there are days that does seem to be an equal challenge.” 

“I _told_ you,” said Randall, “I was _framed_.” 

“We're not talking about that in public, Randall.”

“But I'm completely innocent!”

“What's your ambition, Hershel?” said Claire, propping her head on her hand. “What grand dream are you here pursuing?” 

Hershel hesitated. He never had been much good at answering that question. “I'm not altogether certain I have one. Perhaps…” 

“Hmm?” 

“I should like to teach, I think. Other than that…” 

“You know,” said Randall, “I've always wondered if you actually believe that.” 

“Hmm?” 

“That you haven't an ambition. You really aren't aware of it?” 

Hershel stared at him, wondering if this was a joke or a trap. 

“I suppose you're not, then.” Randall leaned back, levelling a finger at him in judgment. “Hershel, you're just like Henry. You want the world to run smoothly. Henry prefers a more limited, social scope; that's why he’s aiming for urban planning. Even if he keeps pretending not to be. But you? You want to solve every puzzle there is.”

“That's far too ambitious,” Hershel objected. 

“Mrs. Daniels has a course of seven pills that each must be taken in a specific order,” said Randall. “What is the fewest number of pills she can mark in order to do so?” 

“Five, if she is able to do so directly after taking the first pill,” said Hershel. “Six otherwise. What's that got to do with anything?” 

“You're a puzzle-solver, Hershel.” 

“Only because you never stop assaulting me with the things…” 

“Admit it. It's in your very nature.”

“You never stop plaguing me with them!” Hershel objected. As if this very conversation weren’t proof!

“And you never stop answering,” Randall countered.

“Well, of course I do; you keep asking!”

“He doesn’t even see an alternative,” Randall said, shaking his head. “It’s quite incurable.”

“Well, what else could a gentleman possibly do?” queried Claire. “It’s a matter of honour, isn’t it?”

“A gentleman, eh?” Randall gave him an appraising look. “I suppose Hershel qualifies.”

“You know, you could consider it too, dear,” said Angela. “Just once in a while. In between causing trouble.”

“Trouble finds _me_!”

Angela looked skyward, then leaned forward toward Claire. “So what year are you in, then?”

“Just about to graduate,” said Claire. “Though I’ll be on the same project, so I might not notice much of a difference!”

“Oh, is that the usual thing?” 

“It’s not unusual,” hedged Claire. “And my professors pulled some strings.”

He thought he saw something odd in her eyes at that, but it was gone a moment later. “I assume you’re all roughly the same year?”

“Randall’s leaping ahead as fast as he can,” said Angela. “I’m not in a hurry. And Hershel keeps getting distracted by archaeology courses.” She elbowed Randall.

“It’s my sacred duty to proclaim the one true way,” said Randall, pious.

“I’m just glad he’s a good scholarship,” Angela sighed, “or I might have to have words with you.”

“I’d prefer to have a broader academic background,” said Hershel. “You know I’ve been taking maths and logic as well…”

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Angela said, hastily. “Randall wouldn’t wish anything but the best for his friends, but…”

“I’d imagine,” said Claire. “I’m not sure I’ve seen such good friends in my life.”

“It’s a rare thing,” said Hershel, quietly. He wasn’t sure either of the others understood it like he did. They’d grown up together; they hadn’t known anything else. He… knew very well that true friendship could be difficult to find. It rather surprised him that Claire did too. He would have thought she was like Randall, an irresistible candle to drab moths everywhere.

She darted a quick glance his way, with a small smile. “Well,” she said. “Unfortunately, I’d best be going. I’ve a class to get to, and I wouldn’t want to be late.”

Hershel raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you wouldn’t?”

“I told you, a lady is never late. She arrives precisely when she means to.” She grinned, standing up. “It was lovely to meet you both. I do hope I’ll see you again.”

“By all means,” said Randall. “A friend of Hershel’s is a friend of mine.”

“And mine,” said Angela.

“Well, then. I hope I’ll see you soon!” She waved, and was off.

“Well, well, Hershel,” said Randall. “Good job.”

“Pardon?”

Angela elbowed Randall. “Don’t tease the poor thing.”

“Pardon?” Hershel’s befuddlement increased.

“Never you mind,” Randall said, grinning. “Anyway, we were going to ask if you had any plans this evening?”

“I can’t say as I do. I presume you’ve an idea?”

“I promise,” said Angela, “it’s both safe and legal this time.”

“I told you, I was framed!”

“Regardless of any previous incidents, this is a perfectly normal and enjoyable evening of innocent entertainment,” said Angela, “and we’d love it if you could join us.”

“Well, in that case, nothing could make me happier,” said Hershel.

Then again… He tried not to let his eyes slip to the empty seat. It would be quite nice if Claire could be there too.

Well, she’d evinced some interest, and it hadn’t seemed feigned. Perhaps they’d give it a try.

Perhaps next time.

\--


	16. Chapter 16

\--

Out of all the places this path might lead him, Hershel had never envisioned anything like this. Hostage-taking? It was like he’d become an airship pirate in a particularly poor genre film. Though to be sure, the lady protagonist would have been a delicate princess or elegant lady, not this yellow-jacket of a girl in trousers and necktie. Nonetheless, the similarities were disturbing.

“I can’t believe you,” said Emmy. She caught herself up against the helm, glaring up at them with deep brown eyes. 

Descole laughed. “Watch this, Layton,” he said. “This is the part where the agent of Targent tries to shame us for our poor choices.”

“‘Agent of Targent’ is surely a stretch,” said Hershel. “She’s just a--”

His sentence turned into a yelp as the girl launched herself on top of him, doing her level best to get him in a chokehold. Her level best was quite daunting, and it was a jolly good thing he wasn’t alone. Though he had no idea how on Earth Raymond had managed to pull her off.

“Do settle down, miss,” said Raymond. “None of us want to have to restrain you. Now do we?”

She wrenched her arms back out of his grip and folded them tightly in front of her, glaring. “You’re despicable,” she spat.

“Agent of Targent,” Descole sang, waving a finger.

“You know she’s too young to--”

“No one’s too young to understand Targent, my dear,” said Descole, “as I think you well know. And I don’t think she was sheltered from it.”

Hershel shook his head. “How could she not have been?”

“All this time, Hershel, and you still think Leon Bronev gives a damn about innocence?” He shook his head, with a tsk. “She’s not eighteen, and she’s one of their top agents. Do pay attention, please.”

Hershel shook his head. There were things one didn’t speak of, didn’t do, around children. Even the worst of people, surely… But that was absurd, wasn’t it?

“So please, don’t waste our time with the injured innocent act,” said Descole. “You’re not shocked, you’re not innocent, and you’re not justified.”

“As if you are!”

Descole laughed. “Is that so? Why, do enumerate our horrible crimes. I’m interested to see how you spin them into something other than standing between Leon Bronev and the only thing he holds of value.”

“What do you mean, the only thing he holds of value?” Emmy folded her arms even tighter. “You can’t seriously believe that--”

“Dear God,” said Descole. “She believes the man has _feelings_.”

“Of course Uncle Leon has feel--!” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

“_Uncle Leon_?”

“Descole,” Hershel said, warning. Taunting the girl would be both cruel and counterproductive.

“Of course he has feelings,” Emmy repeated, firmly. “You don’t know how much he misses you, if you’d only--”

Hershel sighed, as Descole broke into high, wild laughter. “Please don’t attempt that, Miss Emmy,” he said. “Some wounds cannot be taken lightly.”

She glared at him. “As long as they’re not his! You don’t care about his feelings at all!”

“His _feelings_! My god, stop this lunacy before I crack a rib.”

“Descole,” Hershel remonstrated.

“You think he’s doing this just for spite? Just for fame? You didn’t even let him finish a sentence! Don’t you care about why he’s doing this at all?”

“No, not even a little,” said Descole.

“You’re utterly impossible!”

“Whatever his reasons,” Hershel said, stepping between them, “the lengths he’s going to to secure the Azran legacy are completely mad. You’ve got to see this, Miss Emmy.”

“It was his wife’s dying wish,” said Emmy, raising her chin.

“D’you want to know what mine’s was?” said Descole, voice soft and cold and precise. “‘Take care of our little girl’.”

Hershel flinched. Emmy knew enough of the story to swallow.

“So you can imagine,” he said, “that I could not give a _damn_... about ‘his wife’s dying wish’.”

“It was an accident,” said Emmy.

“So were half the gutter-snipes of London,” said Descole. “Are my pockets any safer?”

“He wouldn’t have… it was a mistake, it wasn’t supposed to happen, he didn’t realize--”

“I don’t care,” said Descole.

“--nothing matters more to Uncle Leon than family,” she said, and her mouth twisted a little.

“Well, some more than others, evidently,” said Descole. “If trends hold, as a female, you’ll either be used as a justification to commit atrocities, or be murdered in the course of said atrocities. Do you think you’re going to get lucky, then, Emmeline? Which outcome do you consider to be the ‘lucky’ one?”

“I’m…” She looked down. “Why are you making me say this? He’s not really my uncle.”

Descole frowned. “Yes, he is.”

“No,” said Emmy, “he’s not. He found me when my parents died, and-- he’s not my real uncle. But he’s done so much for me. I know you’re angry at him, but he’s done so much for me, and he never had to. If it weren’t for him, I--” Her fists clenched. “You don’t know what would have happened to me. I owe him everything.”

“But, he is your real uncle,” said Hershel.

“I just _told_ you, that’s just what I _call_ him--”

“The man keeps finding new depths to sink to,” said Descole, shaking his head. “Child. Of course he’s your real uncle.”

“He isn’t!”

“Hershel,” said Descole, “do we still have the paperwork?”

“Facsimiles,” said Hershel, and went to fetch them. He spread them out over the table; Descole looked them over, and tapped the relevant entry smartly.

“Leon Bronev,” said Descole. “Married to Rachel Altava.”

Emmy’s eyes went wide. “What?”

He moved on to the scrapbook. “Rachel Altava,” said Descole. “Only daughter of a family with three brothers. Eldest, Ivan Altava. Married to one Marie Peterson. One daughter, Emmeline Altava. All missing and presumed deceased.”

“You’re lying,” said Emmy.

“Why the hell would I lie about this, child? You’re old enough to investigate for yourself.” Descole slammed the book shut. “You can find out where the records offices are. Do your own research.”

“But they were--” Emmy swallowed. “They… there are things I’m happier not knowing.”

“What, is that how he’s stopped you looking into it?” Descole shook his head.

“I...”

“I don’t understand,” said Hershel. “Why would he lie to her about that? What’s wrong with the truth? Even from a purely utilitarian perspective, wouldn’t they be tied more closely together if she knew they were truly related?”

“Why are you asking me to make sense of anything that madman does?”

“Perhaps he was afraid she might be used as leverage against him…?”

Emmy looked hopeful for a split second before Descole scoffed. “What, as if the girl couldn’t keep another secret? And leverage by whom? He’s the one in the kidnapping game…”

“He must surely have enemies-- other than us--”

“--who, if searching for a hostage, would still go for the doe-eyed little girl at his beck and call, just as we did--”

Hershel frowned. “No, you’re right, it doesn’t make sense. Though, what of his actions ever have?”

“Then again,” said Descole, “one’s _real_ uncle would have a responsibility to rescue his niece from-- whatever vague perils she’s dancing around. Whereas a stranger, acting out of the goodness of his heart--”

“It doesn’t matter!” cried Emmy. “Whether or not these are lies, he saved me and I owe him everything!”

“Though a decent father, or uncle,” said Hershel, “would not demand repayment of such debt. Particularly not in such a coin.”

“I’m not going to listen to any more of your lies!” Emmy fled; Hershel considered following, but she probably needed time to think, and she could hardly get particularly far. They were well over international waters by now.

“Immortal gods,” said Descole, leaning against the helm. “Look at what he’s done to her. I swear, the only good thing the bastard ever did for us was let himself get kidnapped. Just think about it. Being _raised_ by that thing.”

“I assume he wasn’t so bad before,” said Hershel.

“No, but look at what he’s wrought.... Look at what he’s become.” Descole gestured at the two of them. “That can’t come out of nothing. It has to sprout from somewhere. I don’t remember anything particularly harrowing, but it could only have been a matter of time.”

Hershel raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to make that argument, Jean Descole?”

“On the contrary, it makes my argument even stronger. My wife always loved the theatre.” He turned away.

“I’m sorry.”

“She worked behind the scenes on an adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo once,” said Descole, still turned away, his voice remote. “Couldn’t stand what they did to the ending. Went on and on about it. But she had no say in it. She was just working on the costumes. Brought her work home all the time.”

Hershel listened, quietly, carefully. He’d learned through necessity to read as closely between Descole’s lines as possible. He suspected her taste had run to cloaks, and boas, and possibly cocked hats.

“I am not my father,” said Descole. “I considered what my late wife would truly want before embarking on this course of action. It is why I am here.”

Hershel could say the same; but he suspected there was a danger in it nonetheless. One had to continue to keep such thoughts in mind throughout one’s endeavours. Perhaps their mother would indeed have wanted their father to continue his investigations; it was failing to apply that test to future actions such as kidnapping and murder that had been his downfall. Perhaps it was a slippery slope, but it seemed an absurd cliff from this vantage point, and despite their enforced similarities, Hershel wasn’t sure he would ever understand how it had been possible.

Perhaps one day, he would find out.

\--


	17. Chapter 17

\--

Gressenheller’s library was a grand show of slightly worn opulence, all stately wood furniture that had clearly seen many years of hard use. Hershel had learned quickly that the best place for studying was the second floor, near the back. The bottom floor was busier, louder; the top taken up by students who enjoyed the view. The second and third floors were less competitive and quieter. And he was going to need some quiet for this.

He became aware of someone leaning over his shoulder. He looked up, ready to admonish them, but let it go with a sigh as he realised who it was. The Professor-- Paul didn’t respond particularly well to admonishment anyway.

“That,” said Paul, “is an exceptionally stupid problem.”

“Many of my classmates have been describing it in similar terms, yes.” He tapped his pencil against the paper, masking his mild irritation.

“Why don’t you try working backward? It’s got to be solvable, else he couldn’t pose it as a problem.”

“Professor Charles doesn’t approve of that.”

Paul scoffed. “Professor Charles hasn’t actually built anything in his goddamn life. It wouldn’t live up to his _theories_.”

Hershel bristled in instinctive defense of his teachers, though the instinct was confused slightly, the insult coming from a teacher itself. “There’s something to be said for mathematical rigour.”

“There’s something to be said for actually getting anything done.”

“There is that,” Hershel allowed. “But I am a student and must learn all that is on offer.”

"Including the complete nonsense?" 

"Especially that, I imagine." 

"Layton," said Paul, "just because somebody tells you something, even a professor, doesn't mean it's true." 

Hershel tilted his head. "Are you including yourself in that estimation?" 

"Oh, God, doubly so," said Paul. "I wouldn't admit this except for the sake of illustration, but I promise you, Layton, I am entirely full--" 

"Hershel!" 

Hershel was on his feet before he could even consciously react. He'd never heard quite that note of panic in Randall's voice before. "Randall?" he said, and, inanely, "This is a library--" 

"Hang the library! This is an emergency!" And he certainly looked it, wide-eyed and pale, grabbing Hershel's hand. "It's him, Hershel--" 

"For God's sake, we showed him the paperwork, what could he possibly--" 

“He can’t get at Angela because we’re married, and he can’t get at me without having me declared legally incompetent. But he’s found a weak spot. Hershel, he’s after Henry.”

“Henry?”

“He’s telling him all sorts of things,” said Randall, desperately. “That his father’s dying, that they need him at the house-- he’s telling him he’s no tuition money, and I’m afraid he might have made that true. Hershel, he’s going to drag him back into being a _servant_ forever, and Henry’s following him!”

“He does have the right to make his own choices--”

“The bastard’s blackmailing him! That doesn’t count! And we have to try! He’d do the same for--” Randall swallowed. “You have to help us! Hershel, by everything I hold dear in this world--”

“Good God,” said Paul. “Did you say this boy was in Archaeology or Drama?”

Randall glared at him. “Be helpful or get out, Crapper!”

Paul bristled. “Maybe I will!”

Hershel reached for his arm. “Paul, I’m--”

“Work backward, Layton,” said Paul, turning away from Randall entirely. “What’s the escape vector?”

Hershel stared at him a moment, almost remonstrating him for saying something so far astray from the topic at hand, then understood. “Yes-- yes, I think I know. His habits should work for us in this case--”

“But of course delaying his departure runs its own risks,” Paul warned.

“He’s an exceptionally stubborn man,” said Hershel. “They both are. It’s worth the risk; I think we’ll need the time.”

Paul nodded. “Well, hand it over, then.”

Hershel scribbled the information down in his notepad, tearing out the sheet to hand to Paul. “It will have to be non-damaging and reversible--”

“Did I not just point out we wouldn’t want the bastard lingering? It’s a long-solved problem, Layton. Leave it to me.”

“Thank you,” said Hershel, but Paul was already on his way out.

Randall stared after him. “Hang on, are you two actually _friends_? I thought you were having me on.”

“Well, he taught a class I was in, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping him from--”

“Never mind that, I’ll ask you about _that_ later. We’ve got to catch Henry before he does something stupid!”

Hershel shoved his things into his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Lead on--”

As ever, Randall did, without hesitation. As ever, Hershel followed, without ever considering any alternative.

\--


	18. Chapter 18

\--

Hershel was dreaming he was on a ship that was setting out to sea. There was something of vital importance on the other shore, and Claire was on the dock as the ship set sail. Except then it wasn’t a dock, but another boat, and Hershel realised she was chasing a treasure of her own, in another realm. But she wouldn’t turn back. She was still waving, smiling as tears dripped down her face, and he had to get to her, but he couldn’t. Their ships were facing opposite directions, and she wasn’t going to leave it. She was going to leave, and she wasn’t ever-- coming back--

\--And he’d got used to waking from nightmares by now. He’d schooled himself to do so quietly, for what little it mattered. He stared at the ceiling of the Bostonius, grief welling up again in his heart; it swelled again, engulfed him, and ebbed, as it always did, after a short unendurable time, scabbing over, falling back asleep.

As his breathing grew less heavy in his ears, he realised that someone was singing. A girlish voice, and whatever childish insults he’d heard hurled at Descole, on this ship it could only be one person.

She was in Descole’s office, a book of Azran poetry on the desk before her, tracing her fingers along the lines. Except it never had strictly been poetry, because he knew the words she was singing. One of Descole’s favourites; he sent it to the old man now and then, written half the time in blood. 

She was singing softly, but then she paused, and closed her eyes, as if making some great effort. She spread her arms, as if invoking something, as the tune built toward a chorus; her voice spilled delicately over high peaks of melody, something forsaken and pleading. Then she stopped, and looked down at the page, hands dropping back to her sides.

“It doesn’t sound the same,” Aurora sighed.

“The same as what?”

“When she sang it,” said Aurora. “The one who wrote it. It was… stronger. Wilder. More desperate. It hurt more.”

“You remember the person who wrote it?” He moved closer, standing by her. Wasn’t that every archaeologist’s dream? Poor Desmond was clearly an inch away from a full-scale interrogation on the rare occasions he wasn’t too distracted by Targent to consider it.

“I remember the strangest things,” she said. “I’ve forgotten so much. But I saw these words, and...”

She sighed again. “I’m not good enough for it.”

“I disagree,” said Hershel. “You’ve a lovely voice.”

“I can sing the same notes, but that’s not the point. That’s not what I was looking for.”

“Oh?”

She looked down, tracing between the lines again. “I was trying… to feel it,” she said.

“To feel what?”

“The heartache,” she said. “The injustice of it. It’s all… too much, too grand for me. I can’t… I don’t think I feel so deeply.”

“I don't think you should take us as examples,” said Hershel. “We’ve had an exceptionally trying time. And, well… we do make a drama of it.”

“But, it’s… It deserves to be. It’s a tragedy. To take it lightly…” She shook her head. “To take the suffering of others lightly is to cause-- the ruin of everything. That is one thing I do feel. I want to feel more.”

Her eyes were clear and earnest; he looked away. “I’m not so certain that you should,” he said. “It… has its costs. It can bring about empathy, to be certain, but it can cut and numb you just as easily. Bronev blames his actions all on grief. I’m not sure we’re any better. Pain can drive you to awful, desperate things.”

“Bronev would never tell me that,” Aurora said.

He wasn’t sure that mattered.

“I must remember,” Aurora said, her voice remote. “If that man… something awful will happen if he gets his way. I just don’t remember what and I don’t remember why. But I know it. I’m more frightened with every day that passes. Something awful is so close to happening, and I don’t know what it is.”

“I suppose that’s a logical conclusion, as well,” said Hershel. “Whatever the Azran legacy is, I’ve no doubt he could find a way to corrupt it.”

“I’m not sure he’d…” She trailed off, looking away. Her hands gripped the desk tightly. “You can’t let it happen. Promise me. Please. At any cost. You cannot let him have it.”

“We’d never intended--”

“At _any_ cost.” She stared at him, unwavering, until he finally realised what she could mean.

“Aurora, you’re a wonderful person and an irreplaceable treasure. You can’t possibly be thrown--”

“Some things,” she said, “are worth sacrifice.”

Her eyes were clear and flat and hard as the ice they’d found her in, unshakeable in her conviction. And in a sudden wave of longing, he thought of Claire. Claire, shouting at him from across his kitchen table.

_“You’re just going to sit here and do nothing?”_

_“I’d be putting us both at risk--”_

_“Hang the bloody risk! It’s worth the risk! Nothing will ever be done if you don’t do it! Nothing will ever change if you don’t try!”_

Claire under a sky full of stars, raising a mug full of cheap red wine.

_“We’re going to change the world, Hershel.”_

_“You meant it when you said you were ambitious.”_

_“Absolutely. I’m going to write the very laws of the universe, Hershel, codify the rules we’re living by. Time and space themselves. And then rewrite them.”_

_“That sounds dangerous.”_

_“With the friends you have, you’re telling me you’re afraid of a little danger? It’s for science. For the advancement of knowledge and all mankind. One can’t back down from that challenge.”_

Claire in a grainy surveillance photo, a pocketwatch in one hand and a jerry-can in the other. 

_I could not possibly risk it. Not for any price._

He stood, abruptly. “I’m sorry,” he said, and left.

He knew that determination. He could not stop her. He had neither the right nor the ability.

But he could not stand by and watch it happen again.

\--


	19. Chapter 19

\--

He stirred, somewhat reluctantly. He hadn’t enjoyed waking much, of late; he had a vague feeling that there was something going on that he wouldn’t like remembering. But there was something else, something else had happened, and-- and there was a scent of bacon in the air, of all things. How on earth could that be--

Claire, he remembered, and was pushing himself upright before he could even think about it, a flush spreading across his face. Yes, she’d returned, and she’d asked to stay, and obviously-- obviously, she was making use of his kitchen. 

He was fairly certain he hadn’t even owned any bacon yesterday, so she must have been out and back. How late was it? He glanced at the clock; nearly ten. So she’d have had time. She’d left. 

And then she’d come back.

He took a deep breath. She’d come back, and it seemed she was staying. His hands weren’t quite steady as he stood, searching for a shirt. He could hardly leave the bedroom without a shirt. It simply wasn’t done. But what on earth should he… what on earth did one wear, on such occasions, with a new… perhaps a long-term… houseguest?

He took an undershirt from its drawer, and an old red sweater from the closet; it had been a bit chilly recently, or perhaps he had grown weak. Possibly he should wear more proper pants, but would that be offensively formal? Should he--

“Hershel?” Claire knocked and poked her head through the door. “I thought I heard you about. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he repeated, taking refuge in the reflexive courtesy.

“Come on out,” she said. “I’m making breakfast.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” he said, following her. “My larder isn’t in the best of shape, and I don’t know how I slept so--”

“Because you were exhausted, and this entire fortnight has been a disaster,” said Claire, poking his nose. “And that is why I am making us breakfast. How long has it been since you’ve had anything but toast?”

“I…”

“And tea doesn’t count,” she added, handing him a mug. She had another on the counter, already half drained. 

“But you shouldn’t… you’re a guest, you shouldn’t be--”

She raised her eyebrows. “A guest?”

“Unless-- I--”

“Drink your tea, love,” she said, with a laugh. 

He was only too willing to obey. It did throw his thoughts into sharper relief. “It’s my flat,” he said. “I’m the one who ought to be making breakfast.”

“Well, I’m happy to share the job,” she said. “I was just about to start some scrambled eggs.”

“I… I’m not sure I’ve ever actually made scrambled eggs before,” he said. His mother had been more partial to simply frying them. 

“I’d be happy to help. It’s simple enough.” She cracked three eggs into a cup, mixing them with a fork. She added a splash of milk, then some salt and pepper. “See, this is why you make the bacon first. There’s plenty of grease still in the pan. Now--” 

She moved, and Hershel craned his neck to follow her, but-- she was behind him, pressing close, taking his wrists in her hands. “Now the eggs go in the pan,” she said, terribly close to his ear, and he shivered. It took him a moment before he could gather himself enough to obey.

“There, you see? Now, just leave them for a bit, to set up…” Her thumbs traced idle circles on his wrists. It was-- distracting.

He cast about for something to talk about. “I’m fairly certain I did not have eggs, much less bacon, last night. You’ve already been to the store?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You must think me a dreadful layabout.”

“I woke up early, and couldn’t get back to sleep,” said Claire. “Right, you’ve got the spatula? Now we can stir. See, it’s setting up nicely…”

He tried to focus on the task at hand, but it was difficult-- she was close, and warm, her breath soft against his neck, and--

“You are _trying_ to distract me,” he realised, shocked.

She burst into laughter. “Oh, dear, you are entirely too much fun to tease.”

He had heard this before, to be sure, but in entirely different contexts. Presumably. Now that was a nightmarish thought, but surely he would realise if--

“Come on, then,” she said. Her lips were entirely too close to his ear, sending shivers down his spine. “Turn off the heat.”

He did, though it took an arm away from her. “Fetch the plates over here.”

There were plates with bacon already on the counter; he moved them closer to the stove.

“You know, I could get used to ordering you around,” said Claire.

Hershel blushed. “This is all terribly inappropriate--”

“Is it?” Her arms slipped around his waist again. “Isn’t it the duty of a gentleman to entertain his guests?”

“That’s an entirely different definition of the word ‘entertain’,” he protested. “And-- guest--?”

“Well, that might not be quite the right word,” said Claire. “Paramour? Lady friend? Partner?”

“Girlfriend?” Hershel countered. “Sweetheart? Intended?”

“Intended…?”

Hershel froze. He actually had just said that, hadn’t he? He wasn’t sure if he should defend himself or ask forgiveness, and he couldn’t see her face.

But her lips were near his ear, and she said, “What are your intentions, then?”

He stared down at his hands. The eggs were looking a bit dry; he shifted the pan to another burner. Claire’s hand was stroking softly along his shoulder. He was bewildered, and dazed, and when he considered it, he found that didn’t bother him at all. When he considered it, it all became clear.

“I intend to share my life with you,” he said, “for as long as you will indulge me.”

“That might be,” she said, and he wondered if he heard a faint tremor in her voice, “a very long time.”

“What excellent news.” He closed his hand over hers.

“You don’t think you’ll grow weary of it?”

“Of the most fascinating field of study I have ever known? Hardly.”

“Fascinating?” There was an unusual note of insecurity in her voice.

“You are,” he said. “I simply must know what mad feats you’ll manage next.”

“I suppose it’s endlessly entertaining.”

He turned around and cupped her face with his hands. “Entertaining hardly seems the word. Enthralling, perhaps. Captivating. Compelling.”

She looked up at him, eyes serious. “You realise that this conversation could be taken as a proposal?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” said Hershel. “People always ask about the circumstances of those, and I’d feel an utter failure as a gentleman leaving you with such a story as this. I’ll come up with something better later.” He swallowed, realising what he had just said, and nodded resolutely. “I promise.”

“No,” she said, and kissed him. “I want this. We can come up with a story later. But between the two of us. I want _this_.”

She kissed him between every sentence, and he was helpless to disagree. “Well, then, even if I don’t ask right now, I do think you should know: if you’d do me the honour of marrying me, I would be eternally grateful.”

“The honour would be mine, my love,” she said, and kissed him softly. “Ask me. I’ll say yes.”

“Excellent,” he said, feeling almost lightheaded, almost disoriented, except everything suddenly seemed to have fallen into place. “That’s settled, then.”

She shut her eyes, and leaned her head against his chest. He held her close, stroking down her back. “We’re going to get through this,” he said. “We will make it through this, and we’ll have a wedding with _all_ our friends, and we’ll have the rest of our lives to spend with each other.”

She was crying, silently, so he held his tongue and held her closer. He could stand here forever with her, he thought, and consider himself a lucky man.

A minute later, she straightened, scrubbing at her eyes. “Well, at any rate, we’d best not start the rest of our lives with a cold breakfast,” she said, and started making toast. 

“I suppose it might not be the most auspicious omen,” he agreed, and began to divide the eggs onto the plates. 

“Still, the rest of our lives,” she said, and looked over at him, eyes clear and fierce. “As long as we have. I won’t waste any more of it. Would you mind if I brought some of my things over?”

“I-- your things?”

“Some clothes, a few books, a couple of knickknacks--”

“Do you mean moving in?” He realised his jaw had dropped in shock but could do little about it. “I only just asked you to marry me…!”

“And technically, you haven’t even asked yet,” she pointed out.

“Which makes it even--”

“I’m tired of wasting time,” said Claire. “With-- everything that’s been happening-- do you really think we can count on having the time to waste?”

He shut his eyes. He hadn’t thought of it for at least three minutes. “But-- they might say things--”

“I don’t care,” said Claire. “Do you?”

He should. But life was treacherous; people could be taken away at any time. “Well,” he said, “a gentleman must put the wishes of a lady above such trivial concerns.”

Then she kissed him again. “And you are nothing,” she said, voice full of love, “if not a gentleman.”

“For you,” he said, “I’ll do my best.”

“Your best is extraordinary.”

“I can only hope so. You deserve nothing less.”

They stood there, holding each other, until Claire suddenly straightened. “Ah, the toast!”

She hurried off to tend it; Hershel followed in a more leisurely manner. It mattered nothing to him. The toast ended up a trifle scorched, and the eggs and bacon rather cold, but he knew for certain even then that he would never have a better breakfast in his entire life.

\--


	20. Chapter 20

\--

“You,” snarled Paul, and Hershel wasn’t quite sure whether he should tense up or relax. He’d been anticipating this confrontation for a day and a half, and while it was going to be miserable, it would also be a relief to have the storm finally break.

Though, the fact that Randall was here for it might make things considerably worse than he had anticipated.

“Hullo, Crapper,” said Randall. “What are you--”

“You’re a bastard,” said Paul, pointing directly at Randall’s heart.

“Unfortunately not,” said Randall, “which I have often lamented--”

“You’re a scoundrel and a rat and a traitor and a thief, you son of a bi--”

“Oi, I’m the only one allowed to call my father names like that--”

“What the hell have you done?!”

“I’m honestly not certain,” said Randall. “I mean, there’s generally a good half-dozen or so mad things I could be blamed for at any given time, but I haven’t the faintest idea which exactly could have enraged you so--”

“His career will be set back by years! Bad enough he was wasting his time with all those bloody side courses in the first place--”

“What the hell are you on about?”

Hershel rubbed his forehead as Paul’s accusatory finger finally turned toward him. “Who the bloody hell else could have persuaded him to take up an archaeology degree?!”

“Hang on,” said Randall. “You _what_?!”

“What the hell are you sounding so surprised for? You’ve been trying to seduce him away from me for years!”

“I’ve been-- away from _you_?”

“My department!” Paul yelled. “You bloody know what I mean!”

“Hershel!” Randall cuffed him. “Is he serious?”

“Don’t you play the innocent, you’ve been using your bloody wiles on him since before you even--”

“Hershel!” Randall’s voice, high with panic, cut easily over Paul’s continued snarling. “Answer me!”

Hershel took a deep breath and folded his arms. He was an adult who could make his own decisions; he was an adult who could live with the consequences. “There is nothing wrong with pursuing interdisciplinary fields of study,” he said. “While it will certainly take longer to attain accreditation, there are both benefits and drawbacks to such a niche; opportunities are fewer but qualified applicants are--”

“Hershel!”

An adult, he reminded himself. “Yes,” he said. “I did.”

“_Hershel_!” Randall shook him. “Didn’t you hear a word I said?!”

“Every one, and more beside,” said Hershel.

“How could you possibly enter into this when--”

“How could I not?”

“Hershel!”

It occurred to Hershel that he was usually the one shouting Randall’s name in remonstration and despair. He wasn’t sure if he were smug or dismayed at the reversal of positions. 

“Hang on,” said Paul. “You mean, this _isn’t_ your fault?”

“I suppose I can understand your confusion,” said Randall, “but I just spent four bloody hours explaining why it would be a bad idea! This is not my fault at all!”

“Statistically, I suppose a one-in-a-million chance happens every day, " Paul muttered. 

“Hershel, _how could you_?”

“I am following my academic interests,” said Hershel, unrepentant. “I am furthering my career. I am making my own decisions and I am making my own stand.”

“But if this Targent is seriously a--”

“If this Targent is what it is reputed to be,” said Hershel, “I haven’t been safe since the day I was born. I could repudiate you and move to Kansas and it wouldn’t save me. I could denounce you in the papers and it wouldn’t save me. I could murder you and go to prison and… I suppose I might be safer in prison, but they surely have members in the system, and that would probably just draw their attention. There is no running. I choose to make a stand.”

“Hershel,” Randall tried, “do you have any idea what it would do to me, to your poor mother, if--”

A low blow, and one that made Hershel angry. “My mother has been looking for Targent agents around every bush for years,” he said, bristling. “Hadn’t you noticed?”

“What?” Randall frowned. It seemed he hadn’t read between those lines yet. He clearly, Hershel thought, hadn’t been paying attention, and while he wanted to charitably admit the man had been distracted, it was, at the moment, entirely too much to bear.

“This isn’t about _you_,” said Hershel, pointing at Randall, “and it isn’t about _you_,” he said, pointing at Paul. “This is my decision. I made it carefully and I am standing behind it. You can respect it, or you can--” He struggled to think of an alternative. “Or you can hold your tongues and go away.”

“You’re aware of who you’re talking to?” Paul said, dryly.

“Then you’d best show some respect, hadn’t you?” Hershel picked his bag up and headed for the archaeology building, without a backward glance.

He wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d heard the last of this, from either of them. But he wasn’t giving in.

\--


	21. Chapter 21

\--

Hershel had expected that the interior of the airship would be either a wreck or a display of polished opulence. He was unsurprised to find the latter, though it was also a bit cozier than he’d expected. The settee was a bit of a perplexity.

“Welcome,” said Descole, “to my den of wickedness. Known to the aviation boards as the Bostonius.” 

He tossed his cape over the couch, heading for the till and the man standing there. “And this, as you know, is my traitor, Raymond.”

“A pleasure to be formally introduced,” said Raymond, unfazed.

“We’re going to be having a long talk about what possessed you, Raymond,” Descole threatened.

“Naturally, sir. Though with due respect, you already know.”

Descole huffed. Hershel elected to take a seat, setting down his pack.

“Fine,” said Descole. “You’ve a bill of goods. Sell it to me. Why should I allow you to stay?”

“An additional person will help a great deal with the workload,” said Raymond.

“Or be a liability,” Descole countered. “If they capture him and he leads them right back to our door--”

“Never,” said Hershel, letting all his anger bleed into his voice.

“Are you saying you’d never be captured, or that you’d never be broken? Because I can assure you, boy--”

“My skills would appear to be at a level comparable to your own,” said Hershel, “and I fully intend to continue to hone them. And no, I am not such a fool as to claim they could never break me. They already have. But there are many ways to fracture.” 

Descole rolled his eyes. “I think you overestimate your abilities. You think you can choose how to break? You know _nothing_.”

“Haven’t you?” said Hershel.

Descole paused, and looked at him, sizing him up again. Hershel wished he knew what impossible standards he was being measured against. 

“You might speak with confidence now, but you strike me as an exceptionally poor liar,” said Descole.

“I prefer to find clever ways around it, whenever possible,” said Hershel. “But when the stakes are high enough, I might well surprise you.”

Descole shook his head, incredulous.

“I’ve a background in archaeology and engineering. I’ve a personal grudge against Targent. I’ve experience in fencing, and you can judge my skill in that from personal experience. What questions do you have left for me?”

“Why didn’t you give up?” said Descole.

“She would never let me hear the end of it,” said Hershel. “None of them would.”

“Other people don’t matter. They can be taken away. They fail. They leave. Tell me why _you_ didn’t give up.”

“If you think you can truly divorce yourself from others so completely,” said Hershel, “you’re sorely mistaken.”

“And if you have no identity apart from them, you’re a doomed fool. _You_ decided to come here. _You_ decided to pursue this. It’s _your_ life on the line, now. Why?”

Hershel looked at the table, and he was in that moment again. The dark, battered wood of an interview table. The sickness of the cold, bright lights overhead. The man across the table: _ “There’s nothing we can do.”_

He spoke, so quietly he scarcely realised he was doing it. “There is a point at which you realise that no one is coming to help you,” he said. “All the stories you believed, all the rules you followed, all the authorities you obeyed-- they were making it all up, all along. A polite fiction that only stands up as long as everyone plays along, and dissolves in front of you like so much dust whenever anyone steps away. There is a point at which all you have is yourself.”

Descole was watching him, his arms folded, face still as a mask.

“There’s such an indescribable terror in that,” said Hershel.

“And such a power,” said Descole.

“Justice may be a polite fiction, but I will do everything in my power to make it a reality. For her. For my friends. For all the others who will fall under their crosshairs. It is monstrous. It is madness. And it must be stopped.”

“At any cost?”

Hershel looked at him. “There are things I will die before I become,” he said. “If you intend to become their pale copy, we will indeed have to part ways. However hopeless it might be. I’m not expecting hope.”

Descole sighed, sounding supremely annoyed.

Hershel could think of only one reason for that. “Have I passed, then?”

“Don’t think you’re so clever. I’ll toss you out the airlock once I come to my senses.” Descole stood. “Get your things, find yourself a room, and get out of my sight. If I see you before dawn I’ll probably kill you.”

“Thank you,” said Hershel, and stood, with a respectful nod. Expecting that Descole wasn’t _entirely_ joking, he slung his pack against his shoulder made his way toward the corridor that led back into the ship.

“You aren’t getting your things,” said Descole, suspiciously.

“I’ve very little,” Hershel offered, though he doubted the fiction would placate him.

“Raymond,” said Descole, turning toward the ship’s wheel, “you have overstepped your bounds, and I am going to pin you to the bow as a _figurehead_.”

“Very good, master.”

“You think that I am joking! I am not joking!”

Raymond bowed obsequiously. “Of course, master.”

“And why are _you_ still in my sight?!”

Hershel corrected that mistake in a hurry. 

He hoped Raymond wasn’t going to get in too much trouble for letting him aboard. Still, the man had seemed quite certain of himself, and he’d said the two of them had a significant history. Hopefully he knew what he was doing.

Hopefully _Hershel_ knew what he was doing. But somehow, as much as anything could in this twisted universe, it felt right.

\--


	22. Chapter 22

\--

Hershel was, perhaps, a bit more excited about physics than most of his cohort. The lecture hall was still empty when he arrived-- or no, not quite. There was a student with long brown hair at one of the seats in the front. He tried to sidle into a seat quietly, but they turned to look at him, with a wide smile. A woman, with a kind face and glittering eyes. “Well, hello. You’re quite early.”

“I suppose so,” he said, trying not to feel defensive. “But at least I’m not alone in that.”

“I’m not early. I arrived precisely when I meant to. That just happened to be thirty-five minutes before the lecture’s to begin.”

Fair enough, he supposed. He sat, taking out his notepad. Which would likely make him seem even more of a swot, but someone who’d got here even earlier was unlikely to criticize, surely.

“Interested in theoretical physics, are you?”

“Only as an observer,” he admitted, “but I have the time, and it sounds quite fascinating. I’m a mere engineering student, though, so I fear it will go quite over my head.”

“Nothing wrong with being an engineering student,” said the woman. “I keep saying we should try to poach one for the prototyping, but they insist we’ve all the expertise we’d need. Then another prototype explodes.”

“Explodes?”

“Well, usually more implodes, and more usually just falls apart,” she admitted, with a grin. “But you get the idea.”

“You’d think that would be sufficient evidence that assistance might be of value.”

“Professors,” she sighed, with a roll of her eyes. “So much confidence. So little funding.”

“Is funding a serious problem?”

Her grin grew wider, and she shook her head. “You’re _new_, aren’t you?”

“Well, it’s not my first term, but… I’ve been told I can be a bit naive.” He found himself biting his lip.

“No need to worry. There’s no shame in being new. And I find your honesty rather delightful.”

A few people were starting to filter in, now; they were settling in the rows behind him. Hershel had noticed that people seemed oddly loath to take seats in the front rows.

“Someone’s got to expect the best of the world,” said the woman. “We’ve got to give it some expectations to live up to.”

“Oh, god,” sighed a short older man, setting a case down by the podium. “Fairy-stories again, is it?”

“That book was _Arthurian_, Bill, you can hardly ask for a better pedigree than--”

“That’s almost worse. It’s been a long time since any knights roamed the land. Come, now, let’s see if they actually set up the projector properly this time.”

The woman rolled her eyes, standing up. She must be an assistant on the project, Hershel realised, which made sense of her early arrival. And he’d arrived at the same time? She must think him absurdly over-eager.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she sighed, flipping the projector’s switch. 

“Don’t tell me something’s wrong with it again?” Bill looked up from his work.

“This one isn’t working at all!” She stepped back, folding her arms. 

“Maybe the bulb’s burnt out again. But it took them ages to come round and fix it. We can’t keep starting these lectures late, you _know_ how it makes us look--”

Burnt out? That was odd. The lifespan of those bulbs was generally quite long, and surely the last person to have used it would have filed a maintenance request. “Might I take a look?”

“Young man, it isn’t your place to--”

“Oh, come on, Bill, it’s a projector,” said the woman. “It’s hardly classified equipment.”

Bill threw up his hands. “Fine, then. Have at it. You can hardly make it any worse.”

Hershel got up, examining the lightbulb. It was firmly screwed in, so it ought to be making contact, but the filament appeared to be intact. He unscrewed the bulb to look more closely. Yes, that was all right, and there didn’t appear to be any corrosion. The cord from the wall to the projector looked all right. He pulled a screwdriver from his satchel; it wasn’t a perfect fit, but it did well enough to get on with.

“Ah,” he sighed, once he got the cover off. “It’s the wiring.”

The woman frowned down at it. “It looks a bit of a mess.”

“I believe it’s a botched repair job. Just a moment…” Hershel unplugged the machine, then traced the wires from power supply to lightbulb and fan. One was frayed, but had a fair amount of slack; he twisted it together and traced the other paths. One wire was entirely superfluous and only connected properly at one end; he removed it. Placing the cover back on, he plugged the machine back in. 

“Oh, well done!” the woman exclaimed, clapping her hands as the screen lit up.

“Thanks,” said Bill, gruffly, and turned to carry on with his unpacking.

“The day is saved.” She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “Anyone would have done the same.”

“Not everyone,” she said. “You know, I never did ask your name.”

“Hershel,” he answered, feeling oddly self-conscious. “Hershel Layton.”

“Well, Mr. Layton, my name is Claire Foley, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” She bowed.

“Claire!” called a long-haired scientist who had joined Bill at the head of the room. “Have you got the slides set up yet?”

“Duty calls,” she laughed. “I’ll see you around, Mr. Layton.”

“Er, yes,” Hershel said, gracelessly, and sat back down. His face felt oddly warm. He’d blame it on the heat from the projector if the thing had been on at the time.

Well, it didn’t matter. He rearranged his things, opened his notebook, and settled in for the lecture.

And he looked at Claire, watching her unpack notes, set up the projector, scribble corrections in the margins, and thought, perhaps irrationally, that it was going to be her up there someday. It would be her giving the lectures, a master of her craft.

It would be a sight to see, and, with an intensity that surprised him, he wanted to see it.

\--


	23. Chapter 23

\--

Hershel drummed his fingers on the table. This was going to be a miserable and humiliating conversation, but he was equally afraid it wouldn’t happen at all. If he were out, if he didn’t pick up the phone, if--

But he cut those thoughts off as the call finally went through. 

“Randall?” said Henry, sounding sleepy and concerned. “The operator said this was from London? I thought you were in--”

“This is Hershel, Henry.”

There was a silence. “Hershel? _You’re_ calling me from gaol?”

“I haven’t been arrested yet,” said Hershel, miserably, “but they’ve allowed me a phone call just in case.”

“_You’re_ calling me from _gaol_?”

“I believe I’m technically in an interview room and have not been placed into custody.”

“Hang on,” said Henry, “I think I’ve finally lost my mind.”

“Finally? You were concerned about this?”

“Never mind,” said Henry. “What on earth happened?”

“I went on a date,” said Hershel.

“Ran-- Hershel, that is not a sufficient explanation!”

“Everything went incredibly poorly,” said Hershel.

“That much is obvious! Hershel, please, I had the world’s worst headache this morning and it’s only just going away. What happened?”

“I arranged a proper date with Claire,” said Hershel. “I made the mistake of taking her to Plato’s. They were assailing us with puzzles the entire time. They asked me to repair the bloody ice cream machine and then remembered that they hadn’t any cream.”

“That does sound like Plato’s,” said Henry. “You realise they assault you with puzzles because they know you’ll solve them?”

“What choice do I have?”

“You could… oh, never mind. Unless you finally snapped and beat them about the head and shoulders with a five-quart pitcher, in which case you shouldn’t admit that over the phone, I don’t understand how this led to a police interview.”

“On the way home, we ran into an… altercation. A brute was shouting at a woman. He was starting to hit her. Not even with his hand! With his doubtless half-empty beer bottle! So of course I intervened, what else could I do?”

“You could… never mind. What happened?”

“He said it was an unprovoked assault and they’ve hauled us all in for questioning. I’ll probably be arrested and expelled and I’ve no doubt I’ll never see Claire again. This is probably not the worst first date in the history of mankind, but I’m certain it’s at least a monthly record.”

“Calm down,” said Henry. “It’s just questioning. They have to question you. They’ll see what happened and they’ll let you go.”

“But what if they don’t?”

“Hershel, I’m-- friends with Randall,” said Henry. “I’ve had a bail-money fund for years.”

Hershel put his head in his hand and laughed.

“I can’t believe you’re the first one to call me from gaol,” said Henry. “Clearly I’ve finally lost my mind. What was I drinking last night?”

“Drinking?”

“Celebration, of course,” said Henry, which was strange, because it was logical enough with the recent nuptials, and yet transparently a lie. “Anyway. They have you at Scotland Yard?”

“Yes.”

“I can be there in half an hour.”

“You shouldn’t put yourself out,” said Hershel. “I’d hate to make you miserable as well. Additionally, it is rather embarrassing.”

“Well. The wheels of justice do grind slow. What say I come by first thing in the morning if you’ve not sent word?”

“That would be… an incredible kindness. Thank you, Henry.”

“You’d do the same for me,” said Henry. “Which I realise seems incredibly unlikely, but of course, I’d have said the same of you.”

Hershel sighed. “I’ve made a mess of everything.”

“I doubt that very much.”

There was a rap on the door. “Mr. Layton? Your time’s up.”

“Thank you again, Henry,” said Hershel, hastily. “I very much hope to see you soon.”

“I promise you, you shall.”

Hershel hung up, and his hands settled back into an anxious knot as the inspector walked back in. “Well, young man,” he said, and settled a stern glare into his eyes. Hershel tried not to quail. 

“...The young ladies you were with have corroborated your story,” he said, eventually, and Hershel felt his shoulders loosen, just a little. “Well… oh, never you mind. The bobby on scene supports your side as well. You’re free to go, Mr. Layton.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Hershel, and stood immediately. “Is Ms. Foley all right?”

“She is indeed.” The inspector escorted him out of the room. “Now, I hope this has taught you a lesson, young man. You could have been badly hurt-- all of you could. You might’ve met a bloke better at spinning a story. You might’ve blundered into a trap meant to catch would-be rescuers in an ambush. I’ve seen all these things happen and worse.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hershel, hanging his head. “I do apologise.”

“It’s not… you’ve just got to be more careful. Anyone on the beat would tell you meddling in such things isn’t for civilians.”

Hershel’s eyes lit on the officer who had come to their rescue. He looked away quickly, ashamed. But then, he found his arm clasped in a hearty handshake. He looked back, alarmed, to realise the barrel-chested man was beaming up at him.

“Good show, lad! Have you ever considered joining the force?”

“Er, I can’t say as I have,” said Hershel.

“Gromsky!” The inspector banged on the wall. “Go write your report!”

“Yes, sir!” The man saluted and was off like a shot.

“I swear to God, I don’t know what I’m to do with the lad,” the Inspector sighed. “Spirit of a titan, brains of-- and there’s your lass.”

Hardly his lass. But there she was, and she didn’t look angry. Of course, she was probably too polite to shout at him in a police station. “Come on, Hershel,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” said Hershel, and gave him a polite nod before doing his best not to hurry out of the station.

The bus was infrequent at this hour, which meant he would have to endure quite a long walk of this shame. He should say something. Unendurable as it was, he was honour bound to say something. “I do apologise,” he said.

She looked at him sharply. “Oh?”

“I should’ve… there must have been something else I could do, but I’m not sure what.” He looked down. “I’ve wrecked the entire evening. I got you questioned by the police!”

“Hershel.”

Miserably, he looked over at her. She was frowning at him.

“Never apologise for doing the right thing,” said Claire.

He blinked. 

“I'll forgive you this once as you’re apologising for the inconvenience,” she went on, “but if I ever catch you apologising for doing what’s right again, I shall be quite cross with you.”

“I… I’ll try to avoid it.”

“Well, I suppose doing the right thing is the important bit. But you shouldn’t apologise for it.” She shook her head. “At any rate, have you any plans for lunch tomorrow?”

“I… usually just eat in the dining hall.”

“Excellent! I’ll find you there, then.” She smiled. “I usually catch the route 3 home; there should be a stop in a couple of blocks. Is that on your way as well?”

“I…” Hershel struggled to process three things at once; the fact that she was not angry at him, the fact that she might in fact have suggested a lunch date of her own accord, and the London bus routes. The last operation finished most quickly. He suspected the others might take hours. “It is indeed. Though I should take the 15.”

“Well, then. Would you mind escorting me there?”

“It would be my honour, madame.”

“Madame? Please. It’s obviously Lady Claire.” She grinned at him and linked their arms together.

Teasing; but that, part of him remembered how to handle. “As you wish, milady.”

“That’s more like it. Now tell me, Hershel, what’s your favourite book?”

“Oh, that’s always such a cruel question. Fiction or non-fiction?”

“Either,” said Claire, “and I’ll accept a top three.”

“W-well then…”

She didn’t hate him. He hadn’t been dumped. And it was possible that something was starting, now, something he couldn’t quite-- couldn’t dare-- name.

\--


	24. Chapter 24

\--

Even now, Hershel quailed at entering the office of the Dean. It didn’t help matters that there were two of them there waiting for him. Dean Newton was sitting behind his desk, beckoning him in with his unnervingly long fingers; Dean Delmona was looking at Newton’s bookshelves with some curiosity. 

“Dean Newton,” he said, “Dean Delmona.” He nodded at them. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“And you as well, Layton,” said Newton. “I’d begun to fear your sabbatical would never end.”

“As did I,” Hershel admitted.

“You should sit,” said Delmona. Hershel was only too glad to obey.

“So,” said Dean Newton. Hershel shivered; Newton was well known for his tendency to cut directly to the point, without thought to things like social niceties. “We’d like to discuss your employment, Layton.”

He’d expected as such. “I understand that my position could not very well be held for me. I’d be happy to reapply to any position you think you would consider me for.”

“Excellent,” said Dean Delmona. “We just so happen to have one right here.” He passed a sheet of paper to Hershel, who took it, looking down with trepidation. A position under-- _both_ Archaeology and Engineering? That was hardly the usual thing. Focusing on Azran architecture and technology-- well, that was sensible enough. Full time, a professorship in--

...Hang on. “I think I’ve spotted an error,” said Hershel. “This says professorship-- an unqualified professorship. That would imply a full professorship, which is obviously…”

Delmona was smiling at him. Newton was giving him the impatient look he reserved for particularly slow students. “...You can’t mean to be offering me a full professorship?”

“We just got it approved by Finance,” said Delmona, cheerfully. “Good show making that many headlines, I’ve never got a new position through so quickly. And obviously there’s no one on earth more suited for the role. Well, except perhaps that Jean Descole fellow, but he’s no background in engineering, he’s quite busy with other things, and I’m not sure we could afford the legal headache.”

“You’re offering _me_\-- a full professorship?”

“Come, now, Layton, do try to keep up,” said Newton. “There was a great deal of paperwork involved in this. And _meetings_.” He pronounced the word with great distaste. “We are aware of what we’re doing.”

“But… me?”

“I’d been under the impression that you were interested in a professorship,” said Delmona. “Then, if your priorities have changed--”

“I mean-- I’m flattered, I’m astounded,” said Hershel. “But I didn’t think I-- I didn’t think I qualified. My absence, for one thing--”

“Well, the circumstances were extraordinary,” said Delmona. “Allowances can be made. The spectacular discoveries you produced certainly don’t hurt…”

“But-- my body of work, my qualifications--”

“You’ve been highly rated in the courses you’ve taught. I don’t anticipate any problems there.”

“My publications, or lack thereof--”

“Again,” said Delmona, “there are special circumstances. Quality over quantity, my boy. That you’ve been publishing at all is extraordinary.”

“That I’ve been…?”

Delmona pulled out a sheaf of papers. “See? Doesn’t look quite so insubstantial when you see it, does it?”

He handed the papers over. Hershel flipped through the stack with growing confusion. They all listed him as the author. He skimmed the contents; they were his papers, all right, but he hadn’t had time to go to the effort of submitting them for publication. He’d only ever sent them to--

He shut his eyes against the pain of his heart falling apart again. What was circulating his blood in the interim, he couldn’t guess.

“I know the process has been a bit irregular, but so have your circumstances,” Delmona said. “The paperwork is all sorted, Hershel. Everyone’s agreed. The job is yours if you want it.”

He took a deep breath; he remembered Claire smiling at him from across the table, pressing a hat-box into his hands. _You can do it. Even now. I know you will._

“I do,” he said. “I do.”

\--


	25. Chapter 25

\--

The heading was set. He’d settled the others into rooms; he’d left Raymond at the till. He needed sleep, and probably quite badly; but there was something terribly ill-advised that he had to do first.

There was a sword strapped to his waist and a gun in his pocket. He knocked at the door.

“I hardly see the point of requesting my permission in this situation,” said Bronev, “but come in.”

Hershel opened the door. “There are other reasons to knock than seeking permission,” he said, setting his tray on the cot. “Warning, for example. The last thing I need today is to see you in a state of undress.”

“And how exactly would I manage _that_?” Bronev shook the manacle that cuffed his right wrist to the bed. Hershel had always thought that Desmond kept too many, but he supposed he had been proven wrong.

“You can’t undress yourself with one hand? A difficult life you must lead.”

“This conversation is getting entirely too scatalogical.”

“Agreed.”

Bronev sat up, giving him a measuring look. “So you’ve been appointed my jailor?”

“They all think I’m the one who won’t kill you. At least half of them are hoping they’re wrong.”

“Are they?"

“I’m not sure I know.” It would be simple. The man couldn’t run. One bullet, and they all would sleep more soundly. Possibly even him.

And yet. 

“Well, you’re obviously not here to provide comfort.”

Hershel gave him a very dry look. 

“And if you came here to deliver a bloody sandwich, you’d be gone by now,” Bronev continued.

“I’m glad your brain has resumed its natural function. Long may it continue.”

“Have out with it,” Bronev sighed. “There’s something you want to say. Say it, and put us both out of our misery.”

“Why?” said Hershel.

“Because we haven’t the time to--”

“Why would you do all this? _Why did you do all this?_”

“Your mother--”

“Did not want you to play Saturn and devour your own children!”

Bronev was silent. “No,” he said, eventually. “She wouldn’t have, would she?”

“Are you _really_ so entirely obtuse that you are only realising this now?”

“No,” said Bronev.

“You owe me an answer,” said Hershel. “You owe _everyone_ an answer. Why?”

Bronev gazed into the corner. Without the sunglasses, his eyes were red and weary.

“I could tell you any number of answers to that question,” he said. “Would any of them satisfy you?”

“I don't expect satisfaction. I want the truth. I am hardly under any illusion that the truth will make me happy.”

“I wanted to be important,” said Bronev. “I told myself I would be making an indelible mark upon the world. For good, of course. Though really-- that didn’t really matter. I never bothered considering it too much.”

Hershel folded his arms. That much certainly tallied with reality.

“I wanted to change the world. I wanted power. It’s the closest thing to immortality we’ve got.”

Hershel did not want to hear from this man about immortality. 

“I wanted control,” said Bronev. “I lost control, once. Everything was taken from me. I was humiliated. I vowed it would never happen again.”

And thus he had thrown everything had left away in the name of perpetrating the crimes he had been victim to upon as many others as he could manage. 

Hershel’s hands slipped down into his pockets; he traced the outline of the pocketwatch that was still within them. 

Time was precious, and he was wasting it on _this_.

“All right, then,” said Hershel. “Goodnight.”

“Theodore, I--”

Hershel turned around and shut the door behind him. He was done with this man. He was done with this life.

It was time to go home.

\--


	26. Chapter 26

\--

Hershel hadn’t thought the second time he was in an interview room would be worse than the first. Then again, he’d never anticipated being in a police interview room at all; yet he’d been quite certain at the time that the first was the absolute nadir of his life.

How utterly naive of him. Still, this time, surely-- this had to be-- surely it could not possibly get worse than this. It wasn’t physically possible. Surely?

“Where were you on the night of the 22nd?”

When was that? A lifetime ago. Two nights. “At home.”

“Is there anyone who could corroborate that?”

“Claire…” His throat closed.

The detective looked down. “Anyone else?”

“I… I don’t know. Perhaps the neighbours? Our landlady?”

“‘Our’ landlady?”

Hershel looked away. He didn’t want to besmirch her honour. “We… spent a lot of time together, there.”

The detective shuffled his papers. “I heard you two had a row.”

“That was weeks ago…”

“Her friends were under the impression she hadn’t talked to you since.”

Hershel frowned. “Why would they think that?”

“You tell me.”

He shook his head. It was one puzzle too many. “I can’t.”

“What was it about, this row?”

“She was angry I wasn’t doing more to investigate the kidnapping of my best friend,” said Hershel. “The Randall Ascot case. Any progress on it, by the way?”

There was a knock on the door; without a word, the detective got up to answer it. Hershel stared at the window across from him and realised that he was a suspect. And if he were a suspect, that meant that they thought--

The detective came back, with a new folder. He pulled a photograph out of it, pushing it across to Layton. “Have you ever seen these men?”

“No,” said Layton, but it looked to him like they were wearing uniforms. Dark uniforms. “If you’re asking me these things, that must mean-- you can’t possibly think-- this was _deliberate_?”

“We’re still gathering evidence,” said the detective. “But yes, we have reason to suspect sabotage at this time.”

“Sabotage?!” Layton stared down at the photo. It couldn’t possibly be. Targent?

“There was suspicious evidence at the scene,” said the detective, “and their offices were set on fire earlier in the morning.”

“Their offices--?!” But why would Targent do that? Why would they do any of this? But why the _offices_?

The detective pushed another photograph over; a figure carrying a jerry-can, consulting a pocket-watch. Their face wasn’t visible; they wore a long white coat. “Do you recognise this person?”

“No,” said Hershel, staring at it hard, because he was less and less certain of his answer as he looked. “When was this? Where was this?”

“Outside the offices at 10:15 this morning.”

But Claire would have been in the-- she would have been-- they would have been in the laboratory at that time. 

Nothing made any sense.

“Between the arson and the explosion, it seems likely that someone was trying to destroy this… time project they were on,” said the detective. “Did they have any rivals?”

“No,” said Hershel. “Not really. I don’t think they were exactly envied in their department. Most of Bill’s work seemed to be attempting to garner funding…”

He trailed off. Something at the back of his mind, some compulsion that was always with him, was trying to solve it. The detective was presupposing that the incidents were connected. Understandable, given they’d happened at roughly the same time.

“Were there difficulties with that?”

“I heard they’d made a breakthrough recently. They always did seem to scrape by.”

However, he had reason to believe that the incidents were not connected. This opened up new possibilities.

“Did they have any personal enemies? Did you have any rivals?”

Hershel shook his head. “I couldn't really say. I only met the professors a handful of times. I don’t think I had any romantic rivals, but I’m quite notorious for being miserable at noticing such things.”

The motivation for burning the offices was surely to destroy evidence. Most of the notes, the research, was there. The project was-- if they-- the project might well be unsalvageable. Certainly the destruction of the lab ensured that, but-- that had been committed by other perpetrators. Therefore, it seemed unlikely, though possible, that it had been done with the same goal in mind.

“Think harder,” said the detective, leaning forward. “Are you sure?”

“I believe that my best friend, Randall Ascot, was kidnapped by a group by the name of Targent,” said Hershel. “They’ve a history of kidnapping and hostage-taking to ensure the compliance of archaeologists. I am the best friend of a notable and missing archaeologist… and studying in the field myself.”

“These allegations are unsubstantiated,” said the detective, though his voice was oddly measured.

“Those uniforms match Targent’s,” said Hershel.

“This uniform does not.” The detective tapped the photo of-- he had no reason to believe it was-- why should he lie to himself? The photograph of Claire.

“That uniform is a lab coat. It’s easily obtainable and could be camouflage.”

“It is neither the time nor the place to speculate on such things. What I need from you is information.”

“And that is what I am giving you.” Rash. Bordering on ungentlemanly. He must be gentlemanly. She would want--

\--but what had it ever got him? Where had it ever got him? This endless stonewalling and run-around from a police department that refused to see the obvious truth. Probably someone had been bribed. He wished he knew who. But he never would. And what would he do if he did?

“Why won’t you do something?” he said. “Why won’t you do anything about them? How many archaeologists have to mysteriously disappear? How many people have to _die_?”

“We aren’t here to discuss the case of--”

“Of course we are!” He stood. “You’ve seen it all! I know that you have! Tell me I’m wrong!”

“Mr. Layton--”

“Tell me I’m wrong!”

The detective looked at him, and at the recorder on the table, and back up at him. He tapped a pencil against his lips.

He was, Hershel realised, quite deliberately, not telling him that he was wrong.

“Sit down, Mr. Layton,” he said instead. “We have much to discuss. For starters, I’ll need you to--”

There was a rap at the door, and an officer poked his head in. “Sir?”

“Not now, Gromsky,” growled the detective.

“You said you wanted word when the hospital declared--”

“Oh, for--” The detective jumped up, stalking toward the door. “Gromsky, does the word ‘suspect’ mean anything to you?!”

The detective grabbed Gromsky by the shoulders and shoved him out into the corridor. “D’you really like him for murder?” Hershel heard him say, before the door shut behind him.

Murder. They were saying it now. Murder.

None of this made sense. Nothing made any sense.

He took up the photograph on the table, the last photograph he’d ever have of her. Petrol and a pocket-watch. _Precisely when I meant to._

He wanted to break apart, but he couldn’t, not yet. Not here. Some part of him was holding himself together with bailing-wire. It wouldn’t last-- the stress would shear him into pieces-- but it didn’t matter.

He would find out what had happened. And he would take everyone and everything responsible apart.

\--


	27. Chapter 27

\--

Time was of the essence, Hershel knew, but there were too many confounding variables he had no way of measuring.

“Stall them,” he suggested. “We want them away from that ridiculous automobile of his for as long as possible.”

“We don’t want him getting in it in the first place!”

“For all practical purposes, Randall, that amounts to--”

Then they caught sight of them, and Hershel knew the time for discussing tactics was over. “Henry!” Randall shouted, and put on a burst of speed.

Henry turned, with a sigh. “Randall,” said Henry, “please don’t make a drama out of this.”

And it seemed like it could be, in the cold light of the streetlamps, as his breathing began to steady from their mad dash. Henry was calm and cool, the picture of rationality, immovable, implacable.

But he’d known for years Randall was an unstoppable force. “Take the cold facts, then,” he said. “You’re leaving us.”

Henry sighed, exasperated. “It’s only a few hours away.”

“It’s your degree,” said Randall. “It’s your future. You’re throwing it all away. Why?”

“I am making my own decision,” said Henry. “I am choosing what I would like my life to become--”

“And you want your life to be living as a servant in that rotting old house for the rest of your--”

“Randall!” Hershel turned toward the voice; there was Mr. Ascot, on the stairs.

“Hershel,” said Randall, desperately, “take care of him, would you?”

“How the devil am I supposed to do that?” Hershel protested, and immediately headed to the stairs to try. “Sir--”

“Oh, I don’t want to hear from you, Layton, you’re a horrible influence and you always have been--”

“Sir, I don’t know what you think I--”

“All this time, corrupting him, luring him out--”

“Sir,” said Hershel, “by the time I arrived in town, he’d been sneaking out for years. How could I have--”

“You made it worse!”

“I did my best to--”

“Stop lying!” Randall yelled, hands cupped around his mouth, before turning back to Henry. Hershel couldn’t hear their conversation from here, and he had been assigned another task.

“That boy,” Mr. Ascot growled. “How I raised such an ungrateful son, I’ll never know.”

“Nor I,” said Hershel, meaning it a rather different way. How the man had brought himself to do it-- how he’d failed to see or attend to the consequences of his actions-- Hershel would never understand. “Please, sir--”

“Sir. You always called me sir. Every time I see you, you call me sir. And then you sneak behind my back to stab me. I don’t want to hear it, boy.”

“I was raised to be polite to my elders, sir,” said Hershel. The question of whether his elders deserved it had never come up. “I fear it’s a habit I cannot break.”

“I shan’t waste any more time with your lies.” Mr. Ascot pushed past him. “Into the car, Henry!”

“You can’t seriously be--” Randall was saying, and Henry-- Henry was slipping into the passenger seat. Why? Henry was loyal to Randall above all things. Why would he fail to listen to him now, at the most crucial moment?

“They need me,” said Henry. “And you don’t.”

“What part of ‘I need you’ needs extended--”

“You’ll be fine, Randall,” Henry said softly. Mr. Ascot slid into the driver’s seat behind him. “This isn’t my place. It never was. It’s time I go home.”

“Henry--!”

“No more dramatics,” said Henry. “Goodbye, Randall.”

“Henry, no!”

Henry looked away. Randall looked like he was about to throw himself in front of the car; Hershel caught his arm. Mr. Ascot turned the key--

\--and nothing happened.

He turned the key again. Still nothing. “What in the devil!”

“Well,” said Randall, with a shaky grin. “You’re not getting away that easily after all.”

“God Almighty.” Henry shoved the door back open, stalking away.

Randall took a deep breath. “It’s up to us, now,” he said. “We’ll manage it. Just keep him here!”

“Us--?” 

But Randall had already taken off. Hershel sighed, pushing his hair away from his face.

“Meddler,” said Mr. Ascot, glaring at him. He didn’t bother chasing after the boys; he’d never been an athletic man, and Randall had always been quite fast when sufficiently motivated. Doubtless why the man tried so hard to keep him within walls, where he had nowhere to run.

“I don’t understand,” said Hershel. “Why would you want to draw Henry away? You never cared about him before. If it’s a servant you need, you could simply hire one. Are you that attached to having everything as it was, or that driven to disrupt Randall’s happiness?”

“Happiness!” Ascot snorted. “He’s ruining every chance he ever had of that. Marrying that ridiculous girl-- pursuing archaeology, of all things-- someone’s got to save him from himself.”

Hershel took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Violence, or incautious words, would only serve to make the situation worse. “I’m sure you are attempting to do what is best with him, but I cannot help but disagree with your opinion of what that is.”

“And I cannot bring myself to care about your opinion.”

“If you’d allowed him just a little more freedom--”

“I allowed him too much as it is! Look at what he’s done with it!”

“If he hadn’t been forced to--”

“When you get to be my age, boy,” he said, stepping closer, “when you get to be a father-- then you’ll understand.”

Hershel looked at the man, and thought of a moonless night, the glitter of razorblades in starlight, Angela’s voice-- _don’t you dare run away_. His back was straight; his voice was even. “Sir,” he said, “I would die first.”

“Children,” snorted the man, rolling his eyes. Hershel remained unmoved. He was old enough to know that people grew, people changed, in ways they could not predict. But he would never become to anyone what this man had become to Randall. It was unconscionable. Death would be a vastly preferable alternative. Hershel allowed for doubt of many things, but there were a few core tenets, a few vital truths, that brooked no opposition. And this he had known since he was a boy: this man was wrong.

Perhaps that showed in his face, a little; perhaps the man wasn’t sure what to do with a silence that was unwavering, uncowed. “Go on, would you? I’m going to wait to see if Henry, at least, will come to his senses. He always knew his place before.”

“Yes, I’m not certain what’s changed,” said Hershel. “His place is with his friends.”

“Friends, with a servant? What the devil is the world coming to?”

Hershel started to answer, but he was distracted by a noise behind him. He turned, fearing Henry had indeed returned, but it was Paul, scowling, his hands stuck in his pockets.

“What a petty little tyrant,” said Paul, shaking his head. “And believe you me, you’re looking at one of the world’s foremost experts in petty tyranny.”

“I must admit I’ve heard this allegation,” Hershel corroborated.

“Huh. I’ll have to revise my estimations of their creativity significantly upward.”

“Who the devil are you?” demanded Mr. Ascot. “And what are you--”

“The man who’ll fix your engine for a tenner,” said Paul.

“What?”

“For a tenner, which is a common term for ten pounds,” said Paul, slowly, “I will fix your engine, which is the thing that makes your car run. You can then use your car to get the hell out of Gressenheller, by turning the key that will start the combustion engine and--”

“I know what an engine is!”

“Huh. Would’ve thought that was servant stuff.” Paul rolled his eyes. “You want your car fixed or not?”

“I’m going to stay--”

“I mean, I could call the cops,” said Paul.

“And tell them what?! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“You probably haven’t done anything illegal, no, which is why I would _lie_. It’d be a massive waste of both our time, so why don’t you just get the hell out of here and come back some other day.”

Mr. Ascot’s mouth worked silently for a few moments. “Fine! Fix it, then!”

“Tenner?”

“What sort of idiot do you take me for?!”

“Fine,” Paul sighed. He stalked over to the car, lifted the door to the engine, pulled a spark plug from his pocket, and slotted it back in. “Tenner, please.”

“You-- this is sabotage!”

“And unless you want me to do it again, I want my tenner now.”

“You--”

“I’m entirely serious,” said Paul.

“You-- ugh!” Ascot drew a bill from his wallet and threw it at Paul’s face. It fluttered, of course, ineffectually to the ground. “Universities these days!”

Paul pocketed the bill and shut the lid again. “Goodbye, now.”

“I _will_ be back!” Ascot got in his car and slammed the door.

“Not with that license plate, you’d better not,” Paul muttered.

“...What did you do?” Hershel asked.

“If you don’t know, the cops can’t get it out of you later.”

“Paul--”

The engine roared into life; Paul waved as the car sped away. “Did I hear a complaint about my invaluable assistance?”

“No,” said Hershel.

“That’s a clever lad.”

Hershel shook his head. “...Did you really have to charge him?”

“Are you still under the delusion that this job _pays_?”

Hershel sighed and ran a hand through his hair. What an absurd evening. Though, it could have turned into something far worse.

“Thank you,” said Hershel. “You had no reason to help, but I can say without irony that your assistance truly was invaluable.”

“Oh, nobody does anything without a reason,” Paul muttered.

“Oh?”

Paul shook his head. “Nevermind. Anyway, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go establish an alibi. I turned the main clock back ten minutes just for the occasion; care to join me?”

Hershel was torn between disapproval and the pragmatic notion that, should Ascot prove difficult, an alibi might legitimately be a valuable thing. “You are joking, aren’t you?”

“You’ve only got one way to find out.”

Hershel looked up at the sky. “You’re really tasking me with _two_ of them?”

“Hurry up or go away!”

Hershel shook his head. His friends might make his life difficult, but it seemed that he preferred it that way. Otherwise, why would he continue to seek such people out? 

“Coming!” he called, and followed Paul back toward the lights of campus. Back toward home.

\--


	28. Chapter 28

\--

“All right,” said Descole, “it's time we faced up to the practical issues. We're going to need to get them some clothes.”

“Clothes?” 

Descole gestured at the girls on the settee. Aurora was still wearing an Azran robe, of course, and Emmy’s yellow outfit was nothing if not conspicuous. “Unless you're secretly a seamstress?”

“Your point is taken.”

“I want no part of this,” said Emmy.

“Emmy--” Hershel tried.

“That’s Miss Emmeline Altava, to you.”

“Emmeline,” said Descole, “do you not _want_ a change of clothes?”

She folded her arms. “Fine,” she grumbled.

“I suppose clothing has changed an awful lot,” said Aurora, “and I shouldn’t like to be caught by… your pardon, Miss Emmeline Altava.”

Emmy ran a hand through her hair, exasperated. “I didn’t mean… oh, hell…”

“I know they must mean a great deal to you, but I’m afraid they made a poor first impression,” said Aurora. “I’m sorry.”

“No, what I meant was-- Emmeline. My name is Emmeline.”

“Oh. Emmeline?” Aurora blinked wide, guileless eyes. Hershel suspected they might be the strongest weapon against Emmy they had.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Aurora. “I still don’t quite understand how things work here. It may be quite a burden.”

“Nonsense,” said Descole. “That you speak a language we understand at all is frankly a miracle.”

“How _is_ that possible?” said Emmy-- Emmeline-- furrowing her brows. 

“I’m not quite certain,” said Aurora.

“Magic?”

“I don’t think it’s quite… it’s something about…” Aurora frowned. “I’m sorry, I’ve completely forgotten.”

“Well, perhaps we’ll uncover the answer to that mystery, as well,” said Hershel.

“For now, you should uncover some decent clothing,” said Descole.

“‘You’?”

“I’ve better things to do,” said Descole. “You get to play babysitter. Try not to lose them or buy them an entire toy store. You’re going to be far too soft, I just know it.”

Hershel almost said something, but held his tongue. He doubted the man had been a particularly stern disciplinarian with his own daughter, but that topic was far out of bounds, particularly in front of the girls. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They made it three blocks away from the airport before Emmeline gave him a suspicious glare. “D’you even know where we’re going?”

“I do,” he replied, unruffled.

“How? It en’t as if you’ve bought many blouses, have you?”

“I was recommended a place,” said Hershel. “It’s so close that we needn’t even bother with a bus.” 

“Who’d recommend you a place?” Emmeline’s hands were on her hips now. Why was she so skeptical about this, of all things?

“My brother,” he answered. “He has had occasion to purchase such things in the past.”

“I should imagine,” Emmeline muttered. He cast a stern look her way, and watched her stubborn frown melt into something considerably more troubled as she remembered what that occasion had actually been.

“Would you _really_ like to bring that up?”

She shook her head and looked away, letting the topic drop.

They headed south; Aurora watched the people around them like a frightened bird, torn between fascination and reticence, drifting closer to his side as they went. Well, they’d told her she stood out; small wonder she was insecure. Perhaps a bit of camouflage would help her. Then again, given who and what and when she was, perhaps intimidation was inevitable. Well, she’d learn, given time. And he fully intended to give her time.

His hand stole to his pocket. The watch was still there.

“This looks a likely one,” said Emmeline. “Let’s try it.” 

“Yes, I believe this is the place.”

They stepped inside; the place was large and airy, with racks of clothing everywhere. “Oh, my,” breathed Aurora. “Where do we even begin?”

“Well, you’ll want at least a few options,” said Hershel. “We may experience a wide variety of climates in our travels.”

Emmeline studied her. “Then again, you’ve never seemed that cold, eh? Maybe it’s the iceberg.”

“It wasn’t an iceberg…”

“So, what d’you like?” said Emmeline. “Skirts? Pants? A dress like that won’t be as practical. Too long. Terrible for mobility. And in the wind?” She shook her head.

“I… I’m not sure.” Her fingers twisted together nervously. 

“Well, we’ll try some of both, then.” Emmeline strode briskly to a rack. “We’ll need to figure your size, too. What’s your favourite colours, then?”

“I... I’m not sure? I never really thought about it.”

Emmeline gave her a skeptical look, then shrugged. “Well, that pink seems to suit you well enough. Though most things would, I’d imagine.” She pulled out a lacy dress with a short skirt. “Come on, let’s find out what you like. Get over here, there’s a mirror.”

Aurora followed her, hesitantly. “Now, be honest,” she said, sternly. “I didn’t make any of the things and I shan’t be offended at all. What do you think of this?”

“I…” Aurora stared at her reflection. Emmeline was holding the dress in front of her; her eyes looked rather lost. “I’m not sure. It’s rather… intricate. And if the point is… to be more practical?”

“Hmm. How about this?” She pulled out a straight white dress that reminded Hershel of a pillowcase. 

“I… it’s very short?”

“And this?” She pulled out a yellow checked blazer.

“Is… is this really something people would wear?”

“D’you want to try it?” Emmeline waved it closer.

“...I’d… I think I’d rather not.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Emmy-- Emmeline-- grinned. “You don’t like this thing. Good taste, it’s awful. Sorry!” she called to the shopgirl, who shrugged.

Aurora blushed. “It’s not… I mean, I don’t know anything about these clothes, I can’t judge--”

“Only you can judge what you want to wear!” Emmeline pulled a few more things from the rack. “You’ll have to try them on, though. I suppose you don’t remember what it’s like wearing anything but that, do you?”

“Not really… try them on?” Aurora blinked. “Is that allowed?”

“How else would you know what you look good in? Come on.” Emmy had an armful of clothes now, and pulled Aurora imperiously toward the back. “We’d like a fitting room, please!”

“But-- I don’t know--”

“That’s why I’m here to help, right?”

Aurora looked hesitant, but nodded. Hershel watched, bemused, as they filed into the fitting room. He felt rather superfluous in this process, but he supposed that was to be expected. The shopgirl pulled up a chair; he took it gratefully, with a courteous nod.

“Miss! Could we get these two in a size larger?”

The shopgirl sighed, and Hershel’s lips quirked. He did wish he had a cup of tea. But clothes shopping reminded him a bit of a puzzle. 

That was a bittersweet feeling.

“All right!” Emmeline crowed, some time later. “Victory!”

“Victory…?”

“C’mon! Show it off!”

The stall door opened, and Emmy pushed Aurora gently out. She was wearing shorts, now, and a long-sleeved pink shirt. She fidgeted with the generous fabric of the collar nervously. “I’m not sure,” she said. “It seems comfortable…” She took a couple of steps, twisting this way and that. “But… does it really look all right on me? It’s so much… bolder.”

“Nonsense,” said Emmeline. “It suits you beautifully.”

“Even though…” She gestured at her legs.

“That used to long skirts, eh? You’ve nothing to worry about. You look lovely.”

“You really think so?”

Emmeline bit her lip. “Yes,” she said, after just a moment’s hesitation. “I really, truly do.”

Aurora smiled at her, small and soft and hesitant, and Hershel smiled too. He had a feeling that not even Emmeline Altava would be able to withstand that smile for long.

“All right, then,” said Aurora. “I’ll take it.”

“That’s a girl,” Emmeline said, clapping her on the back. “Anything else? It can be nice to have a change of clothes or two around.”

“This seems like more than enough already… and it’s a little overwhelming. I’d really like to stop for today, if that’s all right.”

“Fair enough. I guess that’s that, then.”

“Aren’t you going to get something?”

Emmeline grinned. “You know, I think I will.” She took a pair of blouses from the racks and headed for the changing room.

The blouses wouldn’t do much to mute her jacket, but it was a step in the right direction. “Well, that’s for the best.”

“Do you need anything?” Aurora asked. “You’re doing all of these things for us, and nothing for yourself…”

Hershel chuckled. “I’ve all the clothing I need, my dear,” he said, “and besides, little here would suit me. No, no, this is the least we can do. I only wish the situation weren’t so… precarious. You should be exploring the world at your leisure.”

“Perhaps someday,” said Aurora. “It does seem quite big and strange. I imagine one might take years to understand it all.”

“Understanding _all_ of it is quite ambitious. That might take decades. It might not strictly be possible.”

“It might be interesting to try,” said Aurora.

And she should be able to. She should not be a target; she should not be hunted. Damn the whole of Targent, anyway. “Is there anything else you might need?”

She shook her head. “This is already so much…”

“Would you perhaps like some of these hairpins as--”

There was a faint commotion from the changing rooms. Hershel sighed as the shopgirl dragged Emmeline out by the ear. “Let me go!” 

“What…?” said Aurora.

“Went for the window?” said Hershel.

“I knew you’d be a miserable babysitter,” said Descole, no longer bothering to disguise his voice, shoving Emmy his way.

Emmeline stared at him, agape. “You’re... But... but how?!”

“A magician never reveals his tricks.”

“No man should be able to wear a skirt that short and--”

Descole scoffed. “A girl who was raised in Targent knows nothing whatsoever of _men_.”

“What’s that supposed to--”

“Children!” Hershel clapped. “Do settle down. I’d hate to have to cancel our ice-cream trip.”

“Why, you--”

“How dare you speak to me like--”

“Never mind,” sighed Hershel. “Come, Aurora. Let’s get some ice cream, and we’ll meet them back on the Bostonius once cooler heads have prevailed.”

“I… all right.” Aurora took his hand.

“Hershel, don’t you dare walk away from--”

“This is all your fault, you _actual big girls’ blouse_\--”

“Vixen, what did you just--”

“Yes, actually,” said Aurora, “I think this might be the right decision. So. What is ice cream?”

“A delicious treat made from frozen milk, often served in cones or bowls. You know, that reminds me of a puzzle…”

\--


End file.
